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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29566227">Shadows and Light</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitzzo/pseuds/Kitzzo'>Kitzzo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Shadows and Light [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Acotar but Azriel isn't as sad, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, eventually</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:14:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>95,829</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29566227</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitzzo/pseuds/Kitzzo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the circle wasn't the only ones freed by Feyre's sacrifice at the end of A Court of Mist and Fury? What if someone else was waiting for a chance to see the light of day again, biding their time in the depths of Hybern. Follow their journey towards acceptance and belonging in a world of death and wonders.</p><p>Follows acowar's story pretty closely with some minor changes.</p><p>*Does not take anything from acosf into account because I made this story long before I knew the book was coming*</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Azriel (ACoTaR)/Original Female Character(s), Feyre Archeron/Rhysand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Shadows and Light [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>254</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Freedom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the parent story to my other work, Bonded in Silence. You don't have to read that to understand this, not at all, this is just a thing I'm posting to be allowed to write more fantasy and magic.</p><p>I know nothing of A Court of Silver Flames, just some stuff I've been accidentally spoiled, so this story will not take anything from that book into account.</p><p>Everything rightfully belongs to Sarah J Maas, except my OC.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As far as I can recall, everything has either been torture or darkness. There is not a day of my life that consists of anything but, and out of the two, I much prefer the latter.</p>
<p>Spending my days in the dark confines of my cold cell—so small my wings can hardly move at all—is much preferable over the onslaught of horrors Brannagh and Dagdan subject me to.</p>
<p>Luckily, over the years, the king has grown to accept that I hold nothing of value to him, and those sessions of horror and pain have dwindled, leaving me to rot in this welcomed darkness.</p>
<p>He made this cell for me specifically, made it small and etched in pitch to drive me insane in whatever way he could. To break me. The flaw in his plan is the fact that darkness has always been my salvation in this hell, and while it leaves me weak—cuts me away from my true source of power—I take the whispering comforts of the dark over any drifting of the mind. I cannot look past the confines of the castle anyways, the wards blocking any magical passage, even that kind. It is the only reason I have not escaped yet.</p>
<p>Though, there is of course another reason, at least there used to be.</p>
<p>I have not been strong enough to bend myself out of this cell, my blood has held too little light. However, after years—decades perhaps—spent biding my time, that well of power has grown vaster.</p>
<p>Each time the hatch at the foot of my door opens to push in my food and water, I soak up the light pooling in from the torches outside. Lately, the frequencies of these feedings have decreased, as if the King has forgotten about my existence, but someone with hands as bright as the torchlight comes now and again and gives me water.</p>
<p>I wonder who they are, this Lightbringer of mine. I wonder if they know what creature they’re feeding every time that hatch opens.</p>
<p>It doesn’t matter, little does in this space, say carrying on to the next day. I never know when that is—no concept of day and night down here—but I know I have been here long. My hair indicates as much.</p>
<p>Brannagh cut it a while ago, realized I used it as a way of counting the time—comparing the lengths now and again to estimate how long its been. She did not like that bit of hope I’d found, and she cut and burned it all right in front of my eyes.</p>
<p>From what I can remember, I’d counted my time down here to be at around five years then. Based on my hair now, it should be five or so years since then.</p>
<p>Ten years in darkness. Ten years of nothing.</p>
<p>The fact that I hardly care should be worrying, that I feel no longing for whatever I left behind before going here.</p>
<p>Perhaps I didn’t leave much.</p>
<p>Sighing, the sound echoing against the harsh rock walls, I close my eyes in hopes of finding sleep, my only true occupancy here.</p>
<p>I don’t dream, I have nothing to dream about say the horrors I used to endure in this castle, before I was forgotten. Only nightmares plague me, or endless nothing, filled with this something that never seems to leave me.</p>
<p>It’s like a distant thump, solid and strong. Whispers I cannot understand accompany this beat, and I swear they beckon me to come, to follow the sound of the drum. I never can, and as if they know as much, the whispers try to comfort me as well. Sometimes I feel phantom touches along with those whispers, especially up my arm.</p>
<p>I don’t see what it is, but I know they’re good. They’re the one good thing this place holds, why I love the darkness so.</p>
<p>It never fails to soothe.</p>
<p>Sleep does find me, whisks me away into oblivion—to the steady rhythm beckoning me to go, to go see, to see something beyond this darkness and torture chambers.</p>
<p>It’s stronger tonight, closer, but no matter how I reach for it, I never do.</p>
<p>I startle awake as it jolts, changes rhythm, and yet, it lingers in my head as I awaken, a weakening beat in my ears. At first I think I’m still dreaming, but the pains across my body are real. This is real.</p>
<p>Wherever the beat comes from is near, and something is terribly wrong with it.</p>
<p>For a time, it’s all I can listen to, all my mind can focus on, until wave after wave of unearthly power rattles the earth, small pebbles falling from the roof of my cell.</p>
<p>I hardly feel them past the quaking of my body and the ringing in my ears those waves leave behind. It all only clears once a brilliant, bright power rips through the castle, tearing through the wards as if they were mere tapestries and the power a knife. The whispers immediately urge me to go, to bend and leave and taste freedom, but I’m left stunned by the mere thought of it and hesitate, until another power rips through the folds of the earth, leaving the palace, and I will myself to follow.</p>
<p>Summoning the light I have gathered over the years, I bend myself into light, slip my way through the cracks around the cell door and carry onward, letting the torchlight fuel me further as I barrel for freedom.</p>
<p>I’m nothing but a ray of light as I enter the open air beyond the castle walls, nothing but a speck of white shooting across the sky like a star, a ray of moonlight. It carries me across vast expenses of crashing water, my being following the call of the drums as I spear through the night.</p>
<p>By the time I see what must be land on the horizon—grand spears of rock clawing their way into the sky, dusted in white—my reserves run out, and the moon and stars do not supply me with enough light to allow me to maintain this form.</p>
<p>Thus, I tumble through the sky, the wind tearing at my unused wings as I try to use them to soften my plummet, and I manage to slow down enough to not die once I hit the surface and sink into the deep dark.</p>
<p>The shock of the cold leaves me paralyzed, and instinct causes me to breathe in the cold salty water rather than hold my breath as I should. And the waves, they only tear me apart further, the water soaking into my wings and weighing me down.</p>
<p>I sink, yet I fight, refuse to give in with freedom so close on the horizon, so close I can taste it, feel it. So I thrash and struggle and refuse to be consumed by this cold uninviting darkness.</p>
<p>Death will not claim me yet.</p>
<p>I have not cheated it for a decade only to fall prey to it now.</p>
<p>While I reach the surface, coughing up water and heaving for the precious air my body demands, I spot a cluster of dark rocks along the shore of this apparently barren coastline, and using the little strength I possess, I swim to them, cling onto one of them as wave after wave crashes over me, drenching me in icy waters.</p>
<p>I cough and heave and cling to what I pray is salvation, but the chilling claws of death leave my body numb and unresponsive, growing more so by the second.</p>
<p>In a last effort to perhaps not save myself, but find help, I send out a flare of my other power, let the pale golden glow be a beacon, one I pray might save me.</p>
<p>Said light soaks into my blood, filling my well by a few drops, but before I get the chance to wield it, my mind and body gives in and fades away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Salvation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For a moment, I think I’m dead, cradled in the arms of the Mother. Because no thing of the living can possibly grant such comfort by merely existing. Yet I breathe, breathe in the unfamiliar scents of this strange place, and as I open my eyes, it’s all much too bright.</p>
<p>I sow them shut again immediately, take a moment to let the pain ease before I dare pry one open again, taking in the space I reside in through the guard of my lashes.</p>
<p>A room, messy and lived in, clothing draped over most surfaces.</p>
<p>I register the walls as white, find the sheer curtains framing the large windows to be golden, like my other magic, separate from the light I bend. The floor is dark, a brown wood, I think.</p>
<p>These small everyday things seem to slowly return to me, but the difficulty with which I recall these things—like the fact that what I lay in is a bed—is bothersome.</p>
<p>Footsteps coming my way interrupt my thoughts, and my eyes hone in on the door, watch the handle turn before it opens, a female I can only describe as golden passing through the opening.</p>
<p>She looks at me, smiles once she realizes I’m awake, then moves to the side of the bed with caution, setting down a tray of food on the desk beside me without a word.</p>
<p>“Hello there” She eventually says in greeting, sitting down at the edge of the bed.</p>
<p>I realize my wings are spread wide across said bed then, and I stretch them a little further just because I can, delighting in the feel of the burn it causes.</p>
<p>I don’t answer her greeting.</p>
<p>“My name’s Morrigan, third of the Night Court. Sentries found you washed up along our shore last night, and I’ve personally seen to it that you’ve been taken into our care” She reaches for the steaming bowl on the tray, along with the spoon, scooping up the contents, though her eyes remain on me. “Were there others with you that we should search for?” I only stare for a moment, because something beyond her kind words is tugging at my attention.</p>
<p>A weak though steady thump not far from where I am.</p>
<p>I remember to shake my head once her brows furrow ever faintly. It seems to relieve her.</p>
<p>“Good, okay” She reaches forth the spoon of… Porridge, but while she seems to urge me to have a bite, I refuse.</p>
<p>She only cringes for a heartbeat before she lifts the spoon to her own mouth and eats the contents herself. Her eyebrows lift as if to say ‘see?’ once she pulls out the spoon and swallows.</p>
<p>Not poisoned then.</p>
<p>Warily, I reach my hand out to take the bowl and spoon from her hands, and while the position is off, I make do, taking small careful nibbles of this oatmeal dusted with what I realize is cinnamon, one of the scents that cling to the female sat at my side. Morrigan.</p>
<p>The name rings a distant bell, muffled and distorted.</p>
<p>“What happened to you?” She asks, breaking the long silence between us. I lift my eyes to hers.</p>
<p>Tugging at the light which has now soaked into my blood unrestricted, I bend a sentence for her.</p>
<p><em>Failed escape.</em> She watches those white shimmering words in awe for a moment, eyes wide and mouth parted.</p>
<p>“From where?” She asks once the letters fade and her eyes return to focus on me.</p>
<p>At first, I do not wish to say, worried she might be one of them, but whatever occurred before—that unearthly power and that light which came after—I feel as though she is a part of the light, a part of what saved me. Remnants of that power clings to her being, just as remnants of the power which led me here does.</p>
<p><em>Hybern</em>. I sign for her, and her golden complexion pales.</p>
<p>“You… You were in Hybern…?” I nod. She runs a hand through her golden curls. “You were there when it happened” I assume <em>it</em> is whatever I felt occur above in the castle.</p>
<p><em>The broken wards let me escape</em>. Morrigan returns her focus to me after having read those words.</p>
<p>“You are safe here” She assures me. “Your people are always welcome here” I nod slowly.</p>
<p>Realizing I have not had a bite in a while, my spoon discarded in the bowl, she takes it from me and sets it back on the tray.</p>
<p>“Our High Lord will wish to see you later, but for now, just rest. Nuala and Cerridwen—our wraith maids—will help care for you. They will be around, simply do that writing you did and they will make sure to help with whatever you need” I nod, and she stands. “I have to go, but before I do. What’s your name?”</p>
<p>What’s my name. What’s my name. <em>What’s my name.</em></p>
<p>I'm greeted by nothing but emptiness.</p>
<p><em>I don’t know</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~O~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Finding sleep again proves to be difficult. No matter how hard I try, the soft mattress does not seem to grant me any comfort after all these years spent on the cold hard stone. It’s whatever, I’ve spent around a decade of my life sleeping, losing some now will not harm me more than anything I’ve already endured.</p>
<p>It leaves me awake once the door opens, a dark fae male passing through the door. His violet eyes find me with ease, reminding me of one of the amethyst necklaces laid on the vanity, but they’re bleak and dull somehow, lacking life.</p>
<p>“I presume Mor warned you of my visit” His voice is even and regal—ever the High Lord—but it feels… kinder than what I would expect from someone of his status.</p>
<p>I nod, and he steps deeper into the room, grabbing the chair from the vanity and placing it beside the bed.</p>
<p>“Then you know who I am” He states, sitting down on said chair, too small for him, but he seems to make do.</p>
<p><em>I know what you are</em>. He eyes my words closely, head tilted to the side.</p>
<p>“High Lord Rhysand of the Night Court rings no bell?” I shake my head after a moment of thought. It does ring a bell though, a bell as unreachable as when I learnt Morrigan's name. “I’d think Drakon would <em>at least</em> educate his people on Prythian after the war” He sounds disappointed, but all I can think about is that name.</p>
<p>
  <em> Drakon.</em>
</p>
<p>The name rings more than a bell, sends a horn blaring in the back of my mind. It doesn't feel friendly.</p>
<p>I ignore the horn and focus on the other thing he said, the small sliver of information regarding where I might now be.</p>
<p><em>Is that where I am? Prythian?</em> He nods.</p>
<p>“Have you heard of it?” I stare blankly into space for a while.</p>
<p><em>The King spoke of it.</em> I admit, and Rhysand’s tan seems to grow dull.</p>
<p>“Mor mentioned your… Situation. Say, how did a Seraphim find themselves in Hybern’s clutches?” I take a long, slow breath, trying to think back to the beginning of all the darkness and horrors.</p>
<p><em>I don’t know. I don’t remember.</em> I admit, no use lying to these people who seem nothing but helpful. And if they are of Prythian, they are enemies of Hybern, and enemies of Hybern are my allies by default. I will make it so.</p>
<p>“Amnesia?” I lift my wrist, even as my arm strains, and show him the white tattoo that snakes around my wrist like a thick bracelet, a circle adorned with lines like a diamond in the center of my inner wrist. “A bargain” He concludes almost immediately. I nod. “Do you remember what basis it was made on?” I shake my head. “No terms of breakage?”</p>
<p><em>I don’t know anything.</em> Despite it’s friendlier nature, this feels very much like an interrogation, at least in principle. I am giving the same answers I always have.</p>
<p>I don’t know anything.</p>
<p>The answer seems to silence Rhysand for a moment.</p>
<p>“If you’d allow, I could look and see if the bargain can be bypassed, I’m daemati-” My eyes hone in on him with such a cold edge that he pauses. “I know it’s taboo, but I assure you, I would not harm you”</p>
<p><em>No</em>. He takes a deep breath.</p>
<p>“Very well, I will not, your mind is safe” It is, even if he <em>is</em> a High Lord, his claws cannot penetrate the walls of pure light I’ve cast around my mind. Brannagh and Dagdan together could not, not even after thousands of tries. He will not either. “You are a welcomed guest in my Court until you’ve recovered, but should you leave, there is an oath you must swear to me, but we can discuss that when the day comes” I nod, assuming it is some oath of secrecy.</p>
<p>I’m not new to those, I’d say.</p>
<p>He stands.</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t bother you further, but I must ask. What are you? I have never seen a Seraphim with powers like yours” A word presents itself to me, unguarded by the bargain’s binds.</p>
<p><em>Lightseer</em>. His tired eyes observe the word with intrigue.</p>
<p>“Lightseer… I… I swear I’ve heard of it…” The fact he cannot remember seems to disturb him. “What does it let you do?”</p>
<p><em>This</em>. He lets out a sharp breath. The sound makes something warm bloom in my chest.</p>
<p>“Yes, but is that all?”</p>
<p><em>I see things</em>. A dark brow of his lifts. <em>All the light touches is mine to observe, should I wish.</em></p>
<p>“Like a Seer” I look to the side.</p>
<p><em>In a way, hence the name.</em> He seems to think he should have figured as much himself. <em> A Seer sees all the light has ever graced, and all the dark has ever touched. A Lightseer sees all which the light currently graces, and sees nothing in the absence of light.</em></p>
<p>“You can see <em>everything</em>, <em>anywhere?</em>” I nod.</p>
<p><em>In theory, though all I have seen is the interior of Hybern as far as memory serves.</em> Rhysand nods slowly.</p>
<p>“Interesting, I’m curious to learn more, but I should leave you to rest. Lunch and dinner will be brought to you by Cerridwen or Nuala later today, you will be well taken care of” I only nod “Rest well” He doesn’t bother to exit the room the way he came, instead winking out of existence like he was never here to begin with, leaving only a tiny brush of dark power. </p>
<p>At least he was polite enough to use the door on his way in.</p>
<p>In his absence, the torturous occupancy of listening to that slowly strengthening beat ensues, and the shadows of the room whisper and urge me to follow it to the source, though are quieter, more at ease now. Or the thumping is overpowering them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'll be writing this story in shorter scene-like chapters to preserve my sanity. I already have two three hundred page books going, I don't need another. Time will jump a bit because of this, and all interactions between characters won't be in text, so to speak. But what's most important will be there.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Healing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next couple days are a haze. With the light potent in my blood, I often find my mind drifting, though I stick to the confines of the house I reside in, observing the activity during the hours between breakfast, lunch and dinner. It helps accustom me to my power again, but it comes with the risk of drifting too far.</p><p>It’s a risk I never let myself forget.</p><p>This morning—after pushing down about half of the porridge Nuala served me—I request a bath, and the twin wraiths swiftly prepare one for me and help me to the modest bathing chamber intertwined with the room.</p><p>As they undress me, I test out another of my skills, veiling my body in an illusion to mask the atrocities that mar it, even if they’ve probably seen it all before.</p><p>It seems to work, which leaves me only the task of getting into the bath, scented by a lavender soap of my choice. It proves harder than expected, and not only because my body is weak. The thought of submerging in the water is discouraging, reminds me of thrashing in tumultuous waves, but I let none of it show as I sink down into the steaming warmth of it.</p><p>“Do you require our assistance?” Nuala asks, combing a gentle hand through my hair.</p><p>White hair, I’ve realized. I’d forgotten what it looked like beneath all the dirt and blood.</p><p><em>No, I’ll be fine</em>. They nod and leave me to soak, and for a time I only do so, my head leaned back against the tub edge.</p><p>When was the last time I had a bath? I can’t recall. They must have bathed me once I arrived here, but I hardly feel it counts.</p><p>Eventually, I grab a soft bathing sponge and work it and the soap into my skin. It is etched in scars, pale lines that are hardly visible on my porcelain skin, but have a distinctly different feel than the rest of my skin.</p><p>Well, all of my scars aren’t pale like that.</p><p>I take extra care as my hand and sponge run over the reddened skin stretching across my shoulder, burns even my Seraphim blood could not heal.</p><p>Now, you could probably rebuild the skin from scratch, but it’d be a process more painful than keeping the burns as they are. It is not worth it. I can illusion it away anyway.</p><p>Content with my scrubbing—having rubbed some soap into my hair and carefully rinsed it—I settle back again, and as I stare up at the white ceiling, my mind drifts again. It drifts until I’m looking down at myself from above, draped in faelight and shrouded by bubbles.</p><p>I haven’t seen myself in some time, haven’t thought to look, but here I am, unveiled from darkness.</p><p>My white wings are drenched in the waters, but clean, and my pale skin is seemingly unblemished say for the burns and faint outlines of scars I just barely make out if I look hard enough. My face is emotionless and cold, lips neutrally set, the upper a little thicker than the lower. My nose is straight, but adorned with a bump I cannot decide whether it’s the result of a broken nose or genetics. And my eyes, with my mind cast out, my vision elsewhere, they have turned a pure black, absorbing all light.</p><p>I am colorless and dull, and I doubt my true eyes change that.</p><p>Nuala returns, phasing through the door in a shroud of shadows. I watch her mouth move, but hear no words. ‘My Lady’ I think she says, then don’t quite catch the rest. The lack of an answer seems to worry her, and she rushes over.</p><p>Usually, I know when they are on their way with food and retreat back into my body before they arrive, but today, she caught me off guard.</p><p>She places a hand on my cheek, seems to slap it gently to get some reaction out of me, and to see someone apparently <em>care</em> is so intriguing that I stay and watch for a little longer.</p><p>When her serene face grows twisted in what I assume is concern, I sink back into myself, and my eyes focus on hers before me, two charcoal voids staring back at me. I realize they reflect my own, discover they are almost as dark as hers.</p><p><em>What were you saying?</em> I write out between us, and she straightens.</p><p>“I asked whether you wished to get out” I blink a few times, the world still a little strange and out of focus.</p><p><em>Yes</em>. I answer, and she helps me out and back into a nightgown, and she uses some kind of magic to dry my wings.</p><p>Then I’m back in bed, and remain there all day, deciding to read the book I presume Mor has left for me on the nightstand. Reading is quite the bore however when you cannot imagine the world the author is describing, and I quickly give it up in favor of experiencing the real world, my mind sneaking about the Townhouse.</p><p>Rhysand is nowhere to be found. No one is, actually, say for Cerridwen and Nuala, working down in the kitchen. Until Mor arrives alongside someone else, a tall male with dark wings tucked against his back, eyes the color of golden hazel, lazed with speckles of pine green. Darkness seems to cling to him, whisks of shadow swirling about him at all times, even in the light of day.</p><p>My attention drifts back to Mor once she’s given a tray of food and moves towards the stairs, the male following just as I do. I realize they’re heading my way once they reach the top of the stairs, and I spear back for my body.</p><p>The door opens shortly after, Mor as bright as always as she steps into the room, heading for the bedside table. But while she smiles and sits down by me, all I can think about is how loud the thumping in my head is, how silent the whispers have gone.</p><p>I think Mor says something as she hands me my food—which I absently accept—but my focus hones in on the male still stood in the doorway, silently observing us. His eyes lock on me too, and they stay.</p><p>He’s the source of the drums. They’re not even drums, they’re-</p><p>It’s his heartbeat.</p><p>“Oh, that’s Azriel, you haven’t met yet, have you” Mor’s mention of his name snaps me out of my thoughts, and I reluctantly drift my eyes to hers. “He’s here to ask some questions, he’s as curious about you as everyone else here, but don’t worry, he’s as sweet as the rest of us” She stands then, leaving me with my bowl of stew, yet I have no intention of eating it, my appetite gone. She heads for the door, places her hand on his shoulder as she reaches his side, whispers something my Seraphim hearing does not catch with the volume of his heartbeat consuming my head, then she looks back at me. “Just call if you need anything!” I hardly have time to nod before she heads out the door, and Azriel enters, closing it behind him.</p><p>His mere presence seems to darken the room, the shadows along the corners growing thicker, quivering in his presence. I’d expect as much from a High Lord, but this is not Rhysand, and while Rhysand radiated might, I suppose his power was dampened to make him appear less so. Azriel has no such damper.</p><p>He sits down in one of the room’s armchairs after turning it facing my way, and the silence lingers as we assess each other, but I feel as though Azriel is listening to something intently, his head leaning to the side just a little at times, as if someone is whispering in his ear.</p><p><em>What do you want</em>. I have no kinder way of asking it, but Azriel looks unbothered by the tone of my text, written between us. His golden hazel eyes study the words closely, but his face shows nothing beyond cold indifference, professional in nature somehow.</p><p>“Do you have any idea why a bargain would shield your memories” His tone is not questioning, just even and demanding of answers in a surprisingly polite way. I set aside my bowl and straighten in my seat, not keen on being laid back like this while speaking to him. It feels wrong to appear so weak.</p><p>Or it’s the fact that he’s absolutely gorgeous with that smooth but angular face, full lips and piercing eyes, and the broad build of him, the wings.</p><p>I’ve never seen a male quite like him.</p><p>I can’t say I’ve seen many males, but compared to Rhysand, Azriel takes the top.</p><p><em>I can only guess</em>. I sign as I gain a better posture, folding my wings back a little, though find it very tiresome to do so.</p><p>I need to regain my physique.</p><p>“And what’s your guess”</p><p><em>Whatever I know is important, worth protecting at all cost, even if it means I know nothing at all.</em> A brow of his lifts ever so slightly.</p><p>“Nothing”</p><p>
  <em>I know some things, ordinary things are slowly returning.</em>
</p><p>“Like what”</p><p><em>Names of objects, colors.</em> Azriel looks on in silence. <em>I’m regaining visualization to words I know, but ask me to think back on my past and there’s nothing but a void</em> He nods slowly.</p><p>“And your name is still unknown to you” I pause to think, but it’s as empty as it was before.</p><p><em>Yes</em>.</p><p>“Calling you Seraphim feels rude” His tone feels… Light, joking somehow. It make something lighten inside.</p><p><em>I am one</em>. I point out. <em>What are you?</em> He seems to tense, his wings shift behind him.</p><p>“I’m an Illyrian” He answers stiffly, none of that lightheartedness left. My eyes fall to the two cobalt gems resting on the back of his palms, in fingerless gauntlets. I spot the scarred hands next, burnt. I shift my gaze back to his eyes, and his shadows seem to wrap tighter around him as I do.</p><p>Uncomfortable being watched, I see.</p><p>I take a deep breath through my nose, only to be assaulted by a mix of scents that utterly wreck my mind, but I can’t place the scents, can’t name them.</p><p>“Rhysand told me you’re a Lightseer” His voice, even and smooth, snaps me out of it.</p><p><em>I am</em>.</p><p>“You see things”</p><p><em> As everyone with working eyes do. </em>I swear I see his lips tug into half a smile for a moment.</p><p>“You see more than most though” He points out.</p><p><em>You seem to hear more than most</em>. I point out, and his eyes widen for a second. <em>I can see you listening to nothing.</em> But, it isn’t nothing, is it.</p><p>Can he hear the whispers I do? Does he understand them?</p><p>Azriel reaches out a hand draped in swirling shadow, his eyes studying the living darkness.</p><p>“The shadows speak to me, inform me of things happening all across the world. So yes, I hear things, as all with working ears do” I’m almost inclined to smile, feel it tugging at my cheeks.</p><p>His heart is still a drowning presence in my head, but after being so close to him now for so long, I seem to be able to block it out to an extent, tune it out, but a part of me doesn’t want to do so fully, dreads the loss of its comforting rhythm.</p><p><em>Do all Illyrians hear things like you do?</em> I specify the kind of hearing in case he's inclined to continue that little banter, and he shakes his head. <em>What does that make you?</em></p><p>“Different” I roll my eyes, because I walked straight into that one and feel stupid for it. I watch amusement sparkle in his eye, like glimmers of light in the golden hazel of his eyes. It makes something flicker in me too, foreign after all these years in the dark. “I’m a Shadowsinger” He continues. “Maybe the Illyrian equivalent of what you are” I think about it, and find it makes sense. “Show me how you see things, tell me something happening in the house” The request is surprising, but I nod, settle back against the headboard of the bed and let my mind float away.</p><p>I stay in the room a moment, watch Azriel’s stony expression as he observes me, unyielding and unbreakable. It reminds me of the cold I’ve forged around myself during these decades.</p><p>I wonder what horrors forged him.</p><p>Then I move away, enter the living space and find Mor and this other being I am certain is <em>not</em> fae sitting in the sitting room, Mor holding a glass of wine, the other sipping on something else, too crimson to be wine.</p><p>I return to myself and look to Azriel, who has not moved even a fraction from his seat, still as a stone, solid as one in his posture.</p><p><em>Something other is drinking something that is not wine in the sitting room.</em> Azriel’s dark brows lift, then I note a sense of distance in his eyes as he tunes in on whatever shadow is relaying the same information in words.</p><p>“Impressive” He states. “How do you know Amren is other”</p><p><em>Have you seen her?</em> He lets out a soft snort.</p><p>“The blood then” That’s what it is? I try not to find it nauseating, I’ve seen enough blood to be desensitized, but to drink it?</p><p><em>It’s too red to be wine, Mor’s glass and hers have completely different hues.</em> Azriel only nods, as if he’s evaluating something.</p><p>“Rhys told me you could be a valuable ally in the war against Hybern with your skills, if you’re willing. Is that something you’ll be?” I hold his gaze, his face now fully serious in all senses of the word.</p><p><em>It would be a pleasure to watch Hybern be turned to rubble.</em> Azriel seems to like that answer.</p><p>“How long were you imprisoned there” His words aren’t as commanding, softer. I stare into space for a moment, unsure whether to disclose this. “It can stay between us” He continues, and my eyes drift to his.</p><p><em>Around a decade</em>. A muscle in Ariel’s jaw flares, the first crack I’ve witnessed in his solid façade. <em>I can’t be sure, I counted the growth of my hair, not a very reliable source.</em> I note an acceleration to his heart.</p><p>“Where did they keep you”</p><p><em>In a cell.</em> His face grows grim, vaguely so. His eyes drift to the side of me, to my wings, and I try to lift them tighter against me, but can’t. Their muscles have almost completely withered.</p><p>He doesn’t comment, but something like understanding dwells in his eyes</p><p>“I should let you eat” He stands, his posture as steady as ever, but a hand of his seems to clutch his chest, as if he’s hurt. The sight tugs at my other power. “Thank you for your cooperation” And then he turns into a cloud of shadow and bends out of the room, much like I do.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And thus my favorite bat-boy has shown himself, hope you enjoyed!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. House of Wind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next day, I’m invited to a place called the House of Wind for dinner, and Mor takes it upon herself to make me decent, as she puts it. She’s mildly disappointed when I express a desire to wear pants and a shirt rather than a dress, and she’s even more so when she realizes she owns no clothes suited for my wings. She slips away to find me something decent, and returns with a pile of clothes that I immediately register as Azriel’s based on scent.</p>
<p>I let her help me dress into the much too long black pants and the lose black shirt, but even though the clothes are much to large for me, Mor finds a way to make it work, lending me a pair of calf high black boots to slim in the trousers and a black belt with a silver buckle to draw in my waist. She also rolls up my sleeves in a way that doesn’t look <em>too</em> ridiculous.</p>
<p>I still look like I’m drowning in fabric, but I’m dressed.</p>
<p>Mor braids back my hair, then deems me done and holds a solid grip on my arm as she walks me down towards the sitting room downstairs, my legs still weak beneath me.</p>
<p>Rhys is already there, sat in an armchair, nursing a wine glass, and he greets us both with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eye. He also gives the air a not so subtle sniff.</p>
<p>“Did you ask before you raided Azriel’s closet?” He asks as Mor sits me down on the couch, then moves to grab herself a wineglass of her own, taking a seat on the couch opposite of Rhys.</p>
<p>“No, but I’m sure he won’t mind. I figured his would be less gross than Cassian’s.” Rhys chuckles, and Mor laughs, but neither of it feels quite right, feels strained.</p>
<p>“Fair point” Rhys’ violet eyes set on me. “How are you feeling?”</p>
<p><em>Better</em>. I admit, and while I am far from recovered, my body still weak, my frequent intake of food is helping. But I’m being careful, worried I might vomit should I consume too much. No one has ever questioned it, and Nuala and Cerridwen have made my portions smaller to make eating less daunting, I assume, or to lessen waste.</p>
<p>“That’s good” He nods, taking a sip out of his glass. “You look more alive than when I last saw you” I suppose it’s a compliment.</p>
<p><em>I feel the part</em>. I answer, and Rhys’s smile is grim.</p>
<p>Mor leans forward in her seat and grabs one of the wineglasses, motioning it my way.</p>
<p>“Wine?” She asks, and I shake my head.</p>
<p>“Malnourishment and alcohol goes poorly together” Rhys points out, and Mor sets the glass down with a clink.</p>
<p>“Right, true” She leans back with a sigh, sipping on her own red beverage.</p>
<p>I note the shadows begin to bristle then, shift like the air does above the candles on the table, and the thumping in my head growing louder. Azriel soon manifests in the room, shadows lingering around his being for a moment.</p>
<p>Rhys waves him over, and Mor smiles, lifting a glass up in invitation. His features seem softer as he looks at her, assuming his path to us. Then his eyes land on me, and his nostrils flare ever so slightly.</p>
<p><em>Mor raided your closet.</em> I sign in defense, and his hazel eyes shift to Mor, narrow. Mor just smiles and fills him a glass. Azriel sighs and sits down on the spot on the couch beside me. He brings his glass of wine over on a wind laced in cobalt, the gems on his hands flaring as he does.</p>
<p>“Where’s Amren” Azriel asks, though his tone is calm and smooth, hardly questioning at all. It feels lighter though, but still guarded.</p>
<p>“Wherever she wants to be” Rhys answers nonchalantly, cradling his glass in his palm. “She’ll be here, she’s too curious about our Lightseer not to”</p>
<p>“We can’t call her <em>Lightseer</em>, that’s like calling you <em>High Lord</em> all the time” Rhysand looks positively smug at the thought, and Mor rolls her eyes. It seems like playfulness, as Rhys’ face cracks into a smile when Mor sighs in exasperation.</p>
<p>“We’ll come up with a suiting nickname soon enough, don’t worry” Rhys assures me, his smile lingering on his lips, but his eyes still hold a darkness he can’t chase away.</p>
<p>I try my best not to hone in on the scent imbued into the fabric of the clothes I wear as we sit there, waiting for Amren in a rather comfortable silence, yet somehow tense, try not to think about how close that heartbeat that’s haunted my dreams for the past decade is. I try to tune it all out, and the sound of the front door slamming open comes as a welcomed distraction.</p>
<p>That small, <em>other</em> I saw yesterday steps out of the foyer, her silver eyes staring us all down, but settle on me in the end. Her presence radiates danger, but the closer I look at those swirling silver eyes, I find I do not fear her.</p>
<p>She feels like me, a being full of this light, but still different somehow. Light born in her rather than absorbed as mine is.</p>
<p>“I assume she’s the Lightseer” The tiny <em>female</em> says, sitting down in the last armchair, not bothering to reach for a glass of wine. She prefers blood. Right.</p>
<p>“We just came to the conclusion we’re <em>not</em> to call her that” Rhys points out, and Amren’s dark brows furrow faintly.</p>
<p>“But she has no other name”.</p>
<p>“Yet. She might still regain her memories” Mor tries to be optimistic, but I am pretty content not regaining my memories at this point.</p>
<p>“Well then, <em>Nameless</em>, I’ve heard you’re quite the rarity” She leans back in her seat. “A <em>Lightseer,</em> I’ve only ever heard of one in my lifespan” I wonder how long that is. I will not ask however, that feels like sealing my fate.</p>
<p>The fact she’s heard of one though…</p>
<p>“Care to share?” Mor asks, granting her a glare from the little creature, but Mor doesn’t so much as flinch, holding her smoking eyes steadily.</p>
<p>“I know one lived during the previous war, helped Drakon find his enemies with real time accuracy rather than reports and theories. They left when Drakon and Miryam did”</p>
<p>“To Cretea” Rhys clarifies, and all these names—simply hearing them—has horns blaring in my head, and I swear the bargain tattoo burns.</p>
<p>“To Cretea” Amren confirms, and I bite my cheek as the burn cuts into me like a knife. “If that is you, it would make you as old as Rhysand” Mor snorts.</p>
<p>“Oh poor thing”</p>
<p>“You’re the same age as me” Rhys points out, but Mor only laughs. Azriel looks like he’s holding back a chuckle.</p>
<p>“Anything ringing a bell, Nameless?” Amren asks, feline eyes assessing me as if I were a prey.</p>
<p><em>I should know the names, but I can’t remember, the bargain does not let me</em>. Amren eyes my words with deep fascination.</p>
<p>“If the Lightseer I remember <em>is</em> you, you’re powerful” Her eyes fall to my own, and while I am not unnerved by her intense gaze, I note that Azriel’s heartbeat has picked up slightly, as if she unnerves him by default. “Show me what more can you do, aside from those words you craft”</p>
<p>I nod, and with half a thought, the light around me bends and turns me into the tiny creature opposite of me. Her brows raise in intrigue while everyone else seem shocked.</p>
<p>“Illusions” She says with a tone that suggests she’s well versed in the craft. “Tell me, how do you do it?”</p>
<p><em>The light bends to my will, all light. I manipulate how you perceive the light bouncing off of things, in this case, me. </em>She nods slowly.</p>
<p>“But you create no light”</p>
<p><em>I can.</em> I reach my hand out, releasing the soft glow of my Seraphim magic, making the air swirl between my fingers. <em>Natural light is stronger and easier to bend though, using this would be a last resort.</em></p>
<p>“I assume that’s your inherent power” I nod. “How skilled are you in the craft?”</p>
<p><em>Rusty, but given time, I could suck the air out of someone's lungs, or pierce them with spears solid air.</em> No one seems appalled by this, they simply nod in silent acknowledgment. I decide to extinguish the light and return to my normal form, then change my mind and illusion myself into a complete copy of Rhys. His calm features immediately shift into blatant admiration.</p>
<p>I did take him for a male who loves the mirror, I suppose.</p>
<p>Rhys quickly seems to realize we have places to be though, standing up in preparation to leave, and I recall my illusion in answer.</p>
<p>“Well, enough small talk, we’re having dinner. Common, we’ll have to fly in turns” I freeze in my seat, my muscles tensing up as everyone else stand to follow their High Lord.</p>
<p>Fly. I can’t fly. I can’t be flown by someone else.</p>
<p>A hand comes into view, scarred and marred, adorned with a cobalt gem, shadows swirling around his fingertips.</p>
<p>They seem to urge me to take it.</p>
<p>So I do. I take his hand and look up at him as he pulls me to my feet, his eyes silently relaying that he understands, understands why the uselessness of my wings drooping down onto the floor behind me leaves me tense at the thought of flight.</p>
<p>I feel phantom touches brush along my wrist, up my arm, and I look down to find a coil of shadow running up my forearm.</p>
<p>Azriel lets go of my hand, and I lift my arm up to observe the living shadow snaking along my arm, it’s touch gentle and soft, cool, but comfortable.</p>
<p>It travels to my hand, weaves between my fingers, and I wiggle them lightly, summon a soft golden wind to swirl along with it, feel as though their whispers grow happy in response to it, delighted. Is Azriel doing this?</p>
<p>I look up at him and find that no, he is not. His eyes are wide, surprised, but his face holds no other hint of that surprise. I also realize that his heartbeat has sped up, as if in worry. Mor is also giving us both an odd look.</p>
<p>“Get a move on, you slugs” Amren snaps from the foyer, and the shadow fades from my hand, leaving the ghost of it’s touch.</p>
<p>Then we move to the front yard, and I find Rhys with wings spread wide behind him, identical to Azriel’s.</p>
<p>“Who goes first?” He asks, and Mor takes the lead, heading his way. Azriel watches her pass with a look I can’t read.</p>
<p><em>Where are we going?</em> I ask, and Azriel points me to a palace carved into the mountain.</p>
<p>With the sun still high in the sky, I make a decision.</p>
<p><em>I’ll see you there</em>. Azriel frowns, seems ready to protest, but I’ve already bent into the light and shot into the sky by the time he comes around to speaking.</p>
<p>It’s not flying, but it’ll have to do</p>
<p>I materialize on a balcony, take leverage against the railing as my balance wavers, and I stay leaned against it until I spot two black shapes approaching.</p>
<p>They land, all but Amren seeming perplexed and in terror stricken awe.</p>
<p>“Another skill of yours, I presume” Amren states with faint intrigue. I nod and straighten, try to lift my wings.</p>
<p>“It’s not winnowing” Rhys points out. “You’d be falling out of the sky if it were” I didn’t think about wards, I realize. But their wards are apparently only ones that cover winnowing. Luckily.</p>
<p>
  <em>I call it bending. I become one with the light and travel though it.</em>
</p>
<p>“Like how I shift through the shadows” Azriel states, and I nod.</p>
<p><em>I assume so</em>.</p>
<p>“Well, with that heart attack tackled, let’s have dinner” Rhys concludes, heading into the House of Wind, and the rest of us follow, I struggling to stay upright, but manage. My wings still drag along the floor, but I aim to fix that soon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I manage to get my hands on acosf, but I'll keep it out of this story still, for the time being, so don't worry about spoilers if you haven't read it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Wonderous Sights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I stick around the house after dinner, allowed to explore the space vast, granted I stay away from a certain wing, so I do. I find a music room, a grand piano stood in its center, and without a moment of doubt, I take a seat on the stool and lift the lid, running my hands across the white ivory keys.</p>
<p>There’s something so familiar about them, something that seems etched into muscle memory rather than mental memory, and I experimentally press down the keys, following the natural flow of my hands until I’m playing something, sloppily, but playing it</p>
<p>The song itself makes my heart ache in my chest, yet I continue playing, let my hands carry me to this sad yet hopeful melody that feels new yet ancient to my ears, and once I reach the final note, my eyes burn with tears I have no idea what to do with.</p>
<p>I don’t let them fall, not a single one of them, remain seated until the sting passes, then quickly leave before I decide to play another heart wrenching song. Another time, I’ll return.</p>
<p>Instead, I head for the balcony, prepared to shift back to the town house, but I pause as I watch the brilliant display of color painting the sky.</p>
<p>Reds, oranges, golds, pinks, even magenta. The sky is a mix of them all, the clouds painted to match.</p>
<p>A sunset, the first I recall ever seeing, and it leaves me mesmerized.</p>
<p>So I stand there, watch as the sun dips bellow the horizon, until the color is replaced by a darkening blue, and I realize I need to get down before it completely turns dark, lest shifting will be more difficult than it has to.</p>
<p>I shift down to the town house garden, taking a seat on one of the iron benches out amongst the flowers, watching the darkening sky as I think about what we discussed during dinner. Hybern’s plans, their movements, the possible allies they might find and how to deal with them.</p>
<p>I gave whatever insight I had on Hybern and spent the rest of the dinner listening and eating as much as I dared. Information is something I need above all else, to fill in the blanks of my amnesia with new things. It’s coming along.</p>
<p>The dark blue darkens to near black and grows speckled with stars as I sit there, neck craned to watch it all unfold above. I am too intrigued by the passage of day to night to drift off into the vastness of the world, and too amazed by the beauty of the sky above once true night takes hold.</p>
<p>It’s beyond anything I could have ever imagined, stunning beyond comprehension.</p>
<p>My trance breaks as Azriel’s heartbeat grows louder, soon accompanied by his near silent footsteps against the grass. Then I scent him on the breeze, his scent still not something I can pinpoint, but know I enjoy, however strange that sounds.</p>
<p>It smells like freedom somehow.</p>
<p>He sits down on the bench with me, a respectable distance away.</p>
<p>“The Night Court’s known for their beautiful nights” He states, his tone like midnight. Dark and lulling.</p>
<p><em>Pretty self explanatory.</em> I sign, the words weak, but distinguishable, pulled from my well rather than the world. He huffs a breath, like a soft laugh, and I find myself smiling faintly, then looking his way.</p>
<p>His eyes shift to me too, eyes which seem to glow in the starlight compared to the way his body shrouds in shadow.</p>
<p><em>I saw my first sunset today</em>. I don’t know why I tell him, but I feel like I have to tell someone. He smiles softly.</p>
<p>“And there was only the cell before” He states, because it isn’t a question. He knows the answer.</p>
<p><em>And torture</em>. His jaw clenches, his smile long gone. I look away, up at the stars and sign the rest. <em>They kept me in darkness. It became my escape.</em></p>
<p>For a time, we’re both left in silence, simply observing the beautiful night above.</p>
<p>“Do you miss the memories” I shake my head, though I’m not sure he can see it.</p>
<p><em>I feel nothing for the life I’ve lost</em>. I begin, then pause for a moment and consider how to continue. <em>I’m starting to think I went on whatever mission it was to Hybern because I knew it’d be suicide.</em> The way Azriel’s heart shifts in pace hints at his discomfort regarding the subject, and I agree, but sadly, it seems like a logical answer as to why I ended up where I did.</p>
<p>“I thought Cretea was good, at least compared to Illyria” I look to him again, and he me.</p>
<p>
  <em>No place is perfect.</em>
</p>
<p>“Velaris comes close” His voice holds such pride speaking of his home, the City of Starlight. His chosen home over Illyria.</p>
<p><em>It surely beats my cell.</em> I stretch my wings a little, try to, and while I succeed, I cannot keep them tucked against my back. Something pained pushes past his calm and stoic face.</p>
<p>“How deep was their torture” He asks softly, cautiously.</p>
<p><em>There’s little they haven’t done to me.</em> His eyes drift to the ground</p>
<p>“I understand” His tone is hard to read, but I don’t doubt he does.</p>
<p><em>I tore my vocal chords screaming</em>. I sign in faint text, so much so I don’t think he sees it for a moment, based on his long silence. But then he straightens and looks at me. <em>They healed them, only because they wanted to hear more of it, but I never gave them the satisfaction from then on.</em></p>
<p>“But you can speak?”</p>
<p><em>I don’t know anymore, I haven’t in years.</em> Azriel looks unsure what to say, and I don’t blame him.</p>
<p>Our eyes drift up to the sky again, and for a while, we simply watch the stars twinkle above. Then a streak of light shoots across the sky.</p>
<p>A falling star.</p>
<p>Getting a hunch, I make a wish, but while I close my eyes and do so, Azriel speaks.</p>
<p>“To the stars who listen, and the dreams that are answered” He mumbles, and those words, those gorgeous inspirational words, make me <em>want</em> to speak again, make me want to try.</p>
<p>But too cowardly to do so, I sign instead.</p>
<p>
  <em>To the stars who listen, and the dreams that are answered.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The City of Starlight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From that day onwards, I spend every evening in the House of Wind, playing away at the piano while flexing and exercising my wings. I’m not sure whether the others knows I do this, but I feel like Azriel does. Little escapes his shadows after all, and I often hear him nearby while I play. I assume he has an office here of some kind.</p>
<p>If I didn’t lack proper clothes to work out in, I would be getting into that as well, but until Mor takes me out shopping as she’s promised, I’ll make do with this.</p>
<p>Once the sun sets over the world, I stay and watch, spend well into midnight watching the stars from that bench in the garden. Azriel continues to join me, either watching those stars in pleasant silence with me, or telling me stories about Velaris and Prythian as a whole, with a voice so captivating I can’t help but immerse myself.</p>
<p>Even so, I find the whole thing relaxing, both his silent and spoken presence, along with the steady beat of his heart ever present in my head. His scent instills some sense of calm in me now too.</p>
<p>I wonder if he finds it relaxing as well, would assume so considering he keeps coming back, perhaps enjoys the calm undemanding company after his long hours of paperwork and spying, which I have learnt is his job after a brief conversation one evening.</p>
<p>I feel like I understand, understand the burden of knowing things others do not, the struggle of obtaining such information. Even so, my mind still constantly seeks out new information, either from him or the world around me. I’ve recently discovered another way for me to sate that hunger for knowledge though.</p>
<p>I know other things aside from work weigh on him as well.</p>
<p>I see how he watches Mor when he thinks no one is looking, I hear how his heart shifts whenever she laughs or puts a hand on his shoulder while sharing that laugh with the others. I understand where he’s coming from in that regard as well. Mor’s outgoing and social personality makes her easy to like, and she’s also gorgeous. A male would be stupid not to love her.</p>
<p>Whatever he feels does not seem reciprocated though. But I haven’t formally asked him about it, so I can only assume.</p>
<p>This particular evening, Azriel is not with me, out on a mission that Rhys didn’t particularly want him to go on yet, but Azriel made it clear he was more than capable and sick of being babied. And so he left without so much of a word. He did leave me a set of clothes to change from though, something I woke to find on the nightstand of the guest room, the clothes too neatly folded to be Morrigan’s work.</p>
<p>Azriel’s absence leaves me up on the roof of the town house rather than in the garden, my eyes set on the city of Velaris. I see the dark spots Hybern’s attack left behind, but over all, the city is thriving, alive.</p>
<p>The cool night breeze ruffles my hair and weaves through my feathers, and I spread my wings out wide to feel the breeze better, closing my eyes and imagining myself flying, soaring over the city, the mountains surrounding it, and forest growing in the valleys.</p>
<p>I could fly, could bend myself into the air and glide down, aid my flight with my own control of the air. At least in theory. But my wings are still weak, I don’t want to risk injuring them by straining the muscles too much.</p>
<p>In time, I’ll taste the skies again.</p>
<p>With my hands braced against the roof, I feel something cool and gentle snake up my arm, familiar enough that I don’t startle, though I lift my hand up to inspect my visitor.</p>
<p>The shadow coiling around my forearm whispers and whirls, seems to greet me, so I wiggle my fingers and summon a small current of softly glowing air in a greeting of my own. It speeds it slithering in response.</p>
<p>I have not asked why it does this, have not asked what they are beyond the explanation he gave about them speaking to him, but I know this isn’t something Azriel orders them to do. I feel like this is somehow the same shadow as before though—as always—or a specific part of these somehow conscious shadows. It always greets me the same way, feels the same way, whispers in similar tone.</p>
<p>But how would I know, I haven’t asked Azriel how they work, so I’m left to theorize.</p>
<p>I wonder if they’ll report back to their master once they leave.</p>
<p>I wonder where said master is, he never said where he was going. I assume he’s monitoring Hybern’s movements though.</p>
<p>Figuring I should sleep—bound to go out with Mor tomorrow—I bend down into the house again and settle for the night.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~O~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mor is chirpy and bright as always the next day as we stroll down the roads of Velaris, I clad in the new set of clothing Azriel borrowed me, identical to what I wore previously.</p>
<p>A part of me likes wearing them, they’re lose and airy and comfortable, but something that fits me better is probably preferable, and I need clothes suitable for other things than every day life.</p>
<p>Mor mentioned something about Illyrian leathers, which sounds intriguing.</p>
<p>There are a lot of people out an about in Velaris this pleasant morning, and the sheer amount of people leaves me mildly uncomfortable. Mor seems to have no issue with the crowd, smiling and greeting people as we pass. I try to look polite, but not much more than that.</p>
<p>The crowd forces me to keep my wings tucked in tight, something that wears at my back by the second, but leaving them drooping out here just feels wrong, feels too much like a sign of weakness.</p>
<p>I am weak, yes, I can barely hold my own weight still, but people don’t have to know that.</p>
<p>Eventually, we reach the clothing shop Mor had in mind, and something that borderlines torture ensues as Mor forces me into a changing room and piles an obscene amount of clothes on me to try out, in all colors and styles and all with varying purposes.</p>
<p>By the end of it, I have more clothes than I could possibly need, though still lack those leathers, only my measures taken to have a set custom made eventually. I look forward to seeing the final product.</p>
<p>Miraculously, we’re back at the town house by dinner, and Rhys and Amren are already sat at the dining table, the former greeting us with a smile and raised brow.</p>
<p>“So, about the bags of clothes in the guest room-” He begins, but Mor cuts him off as she takes a seat beside him.</p>
<p>“I payed for them myself, calm your old ass” Rhys looks unimpressed. Mor’s attention snaps over to me though, to the displeased look I surely hold at the thought of her wasting such expenses on me. “None of that” she point to me where I seat myself beside Amren. “The fun I had amounts to the costs” I sigh and decide there’s no point to argue, I’ll pay here back in secret some other time.</p>
<p>“Did you enjoy her company though, Nameless?” Amren asks, her tone suggesting she would not have.</p>
<p><em>It bordered torture, but wasn’t terrible.</em> Rhys cringes slightly, but Mor seems to completely ignore the first part of my written words and smiles at the last. Amren's eyes twinkle with amusement.</p>
<p>“Well, at least you’ll be adequately dressed now” Rhys concludes, and with a snap to his fingers, the table is set, and Nuala and Cerridwen serve today’s dinner. Rhys thanks them with curt nods, and I make a point to do the same. Mor smiles her thanks. Amren just picks at her nails.</p>
<p>“She won’t reek of Illyrian brute anymore” Amren comments, which Mor finds hilarious. Rhys isn’t quite as amused.</p>
<p>We get on with eating though, and once our plates have been cleared and Mor and Rhys bring out the wine, I excuse myself to my room and settle in bed with my book. Prythian history.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'll probably post a lot today, I have enough chapters saved up at this point to let some go</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Progression</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Having acquired adequate workout clothing, I now spend the hours between breakfast and lunch at the sparring ring in the of the House of Wind, working my body back into shape again. After lunch at the town house, I spend the hours before dinner reading, and after dinner, I bend up to the music room and play until sunset.</p>
<p>It’s my routine, and I love it.</p>
<p>I love working myself to the bone, love pouring over books upon books about Prythian history and the world as a whole, the two activities doing well in restoring both my mind and body. The last thing—playing piano—is a way for me to wind down before bed. I still sit in the garden before, of course, but without my music making, I’d have too many thoughts swirling in my head to ever find sleep.</p>
<p>Now that Azriel’s returned, I’ve noticed him observing me during some of my moments in the music room, heard his heartbeat as he’s hidden himself in the shadows to listen, believing himself clever and sneaky. I haven’t pointed it out, and he says nothing of it when he sits with me on the bench later in the evening, telling me stories from missions long since past, in lands beyond Prythian or the other Courts that dwell here.</p>
<p>I don’t mind him listening anyways.</p>
<p>What excites me the most is how much stronger my wings are becoming already, though I am still not comfortable flying, and I think a part of it is due to the fact that I can hardly remember doing so. I’ll be patient and let them grow stronger still before I try them out. I’ve waited this long, I can wait a little longer.</p>
<p>Returning to the town house on this particular evening—earlier than usual, the sun still quite high on the sky—I note everyone gathered in the sitting room and shift my bending to the interior instead of the garden.</p>
<p>No one even startles as I manifest in the room, they all greeting me in various ways of their own, ranging from Azriel’s slight nod and Mor’s enthusiastic smiley wave.</p>
<p>“Hey! You’re up for Rita’s right?” I sign a question mark because I have no clue what she’s rambling on about. “It’s a club! <em>Common</em>, you <em>have</em> to experience the nightlife of Velaris!” I hold her gaze.</p>
<p><em>Can’t we get wasted here?</em> Rhys snorts, Amren smirks ever faintly behind her glass, and Azriel’s eyes gleam with amusement.</p>
<p>“She does have a point” Rhys states, looking his cousins way. She folds her arms over her chest and pouts.</p>
<p>“Fine, give her a glass” She mutters as I make way for the couch and have a seat beside Azriel, and a crystal wineglass quickly blinks into existence before me. I pour myself a modest amount and lean back to join their drinking.</p>
<p>With Mor and Rhys busy chatting, and Amren sipping on her blood, only Azriel is left to witness my cringe as the first sip of wine hits my tongue. I watch his lips tug into a soft smirk, and I shoot him a faint scowl in response and keep sipping down the drink in small bursts</p>
<p>Everything stills as heavy footsteps make their way down the stairs, and Rhys whips around to look its way.</p>
<p>“What the <em>hell</em> are you doing up!” He exclaims, winking out of existence just to reappear at the foot of the stairs, where another Illyrian male has emerged, with wings held up by a brace and covered in some kind of soft cloth, like a bandaging.</p>
<p>The male pushes his High Lord aside and strides for the sitting place.</p>
<p>“I’m not spending a minute more in that tiny room, Rhys” He grumbles, plopping down on the couch beside Mor, who casts him a faint smile, worried.</p>
<p>I’d say I understand his sentiment, but his issue can hardly compare to my own, not that I’m keeping scores.</p>
<p>He notes the lack of wineglasses on the table and goes for the whole bottle instead, chugging down an unhealthy amount at once. Rhys only sighs and sits down again, summoning another bottle.</p>
<p>“Fine, just for tonight” The new male lowers the bottle, but keeps it in his clutches. Then his eyes shift to me, and a grin spreads across his lips.</p>
<p>“So <em>that’s</em> who I’ve been scenting for weeks, nice to meet ya” He lifts his bottle in salute, and I lift my glass in answer. “What’s the name?”</p>
<p>“Currently unknown” Rhys clears for me. “Amren’s decided to call her Nameless” Amren smirks in answer.</p>
<p>“It’s fitting” She states behind her glass of blood.</p>
<p>“Well, Nameless it is then” He concludes, taking another swig out of his bottle. “Name’s Cassian, I command the armies and provide the good looks around here” I let out a soft snort, which prompts Mor to cast Cassian a grin.</p>
<p>“She doesn’t seem to agree” He shoots her a glare.</p>
<p>“I’ll admit, I’m not looking my best” He looks to me again. “But just you wait, I’ll show you what I’m talking about. Rhys has nothing on me” I frown softly.</p>
<p><em>Are you implying Rhy</em><em>s</em> <em>currently provides the good looks</em><em>? </em><em>I hadn’t realized.</em> Mor chokes on her wine<em>,</em> and Cassian looks torn between laughter and awe at the words hovering between us. Rhys looks equal times amused as he does offended.</p>
<p>“I’m wounded, truly” He drawls, placing a hand above his heart.</p>
<p>“Who does then, Nameless?” Amren asks, her red lips spread in a smirk.</p>
<p><em>I’d rather keep that to myself.</em> I don’t let off on that decision, and while Cassian tries to coax me into telling, they eventually drop it for another subject.</p>
<p>Though, as I reach my third glass of wine—and I’ve gone from perfectly composed in my posture to laid back on the far end of the silken cushions, wings coiled around me—I find my eyes drifting to Azriel, my eyes tracing his profile, the sharp lines and yet smoothed edges. And his hair, shimmering with a dark tanned gold in the faelight.</p>
<p>But, even with his beauty to focus on, his heart to listen to, the conversations to keep up with, and his scent to soothe me, I find myself drifting after downing the last drops of wine in my glass, and soon I’m somewhere else, floating above the world, soaring through the dim light of approaching dusk, mountains and forests and snow far bellow me.</p>
<p>Soon, I have no idea where I am, where I came from, and where to go.</p>
<p>I’m lost in the dimming dark, and soon I will be trapped in it, with no way back.</p>
<p>I sober up immediately, panic, frantically search for something familiar, for something I remember passing before, but it’s all the same, all mountains and snow and trees.</p>
<p>At least at first glance, but sat atop one mountain is what looks to be a palace, and I hurry there, hoping to find something to help me make my way back to Velaris.</p>
<p>I’m assured once I realize this is still the Night Court, recognize this place as the Moonstone Palace from my reading, recalling the illustrations. From here, I just need a direction. North or south? East or west?</p>
<p>I find a map laid atop a table, but find nothing labeled Velaris.</p>
<p>But I have a hunch based on the geology, and without another choice lest I wish to be trapped here all night, I take a chance. Spearing my mind through the dimming light, I follow my hunch and pray to the Mother that I’m right.</p>
<p>It all feels hopeless for a time, the sun merely a sliver on the horizon now—would have been lower if I hadn’t left the music room earlier—but then I pass through something, and the city simply appears beneath me, the light of the streetlights and houses fueling my sight as I search for the town house.</p>
<p>Finding it, I spear for my own body, startling back to consciousness with a gasp, granting me everyone’s attention, however drunken.</p>
<p>I sit up straight, ignore their looks and bury my face in my hands, digging my nails into my scalp just to assure myself I’m back, the pain letting me know I’m not still drifting.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong Nameless?” Amren asks, not drunk in the slightest.</p>
<p>I stand without an answer. Snap my wings tightly against my back and head for the stairs, done getting wasted for the night.</p>
<p>Closing myself into my room, I draw the curtains, turn of all the faelights and curl up on the bed, staring into the whispering darkness, searching for it’s comfort and reprieve.</p>
<p>No light means no sight.</p>
<p>My mind can’t drift if there’s nowhere to go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Skies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I guard my mind carefully from then on, terrified of the thought of getting lost again. I refuse wine too for the next couple days, until Mor demanding we go to Rita’s brings alcohol to the table again.</p>
<p>Seated at the round table with the rest of them, say Amren, I take slights sips of my citrus drink in content silence, dressed in a pale gold dress with a skirt that reaches to around my calves, with long sleeves that flare at the wrists like wings, and an open back to accommodate my <em>actual</em> wings, tucked tightly against my back.</p>
<p>The nightlife of Velaris is <em>something</em> alright. A mess feels like a great way to describe it, dancing bodies tightly packed together in this crowded establishment, everyone at varying degrees of drunk. The people around me are much the same, and while I listen to their drunken chatter and smile at their silliness, I don’t engage.</p>
<p>They’re too far gone to notice my writing anyways, and I haven’t dared test my voice yet.</p>
<p>Going against all odds, Mor gets me to dance—somehow managing to keep track of me in the mess despite her intoxication—and while it’s subjectively fun to dance, dancing in such a small space, cramped and suffocating, is not as pleasant.</p>
<p>I wouldn’t say I’m claustrophobic, but I dislike tight spaces as much as any other winged creature, and while I’d like to think my years in Hybern have desensitized me, I sadly don’t think that’s the case.</p>
<p>So, as the music shifts over to something else, I sneak out of the club, find the small patio outside and lean against the railing, my eyes set on the sparkling night sky, vast and open. The gentle night breeze catches my braid, weaves through my feathers, and I sigh as a pang of longing wretches my heart.</p>
<p>The shadow greets me first, brushes along my arm. The heartbeat in my head grows louder shortly thereafter, and his scent laces the breeze soon enough. He says nothing as he steps up beside me, and I say nothing either, lacking words to write to him.</p>
<p>My eyes drift down to him though, to where his siphon adorned hand grips his forearm as he leans against the railing with me.</p>
<p>The burns are rough and brutal, but with my own burn branding my skin, I feel nothing but understanding for the male.</p>
<p>Despite myself, I let an adventurous hand of mine brush against his, and I hear his heart shift, see his body stiffen and shadows swirl around him.</p>
<p><em>I’ve been burned too</em>. I write between us, retracting my hand and lifting my gaze to his eyes. His gaze feels sad, as if the thought of the pain I’ve gone through hurts him. The thought of what he’s been through pains me as well, so if my assumption’s correct, it’s mutual.</p>
<p>“Where?” he asks softly, his voice smooth and even. I brush a hand over my left shoulder, deem it indication enough. He doesn’t pry further, but I can’t help but ask about his.</p>
<p><em>What happened?</em> He looks away then, out into the night.</p>
<p>“My half-brothers” I look down at the railing. “It was centuries ago”</p>
<p><em>Not all scars heal with time.</em> I sign in answer, to which he says nothing.</p>
<p>And that nothing drags on for a while, until I’m gazing longingly at the clear night sky once more.</p>
<p>“How are your wings?” He asks, his tone returned to gentle softness.</p>
<p><em>Better, but I’m not confident about flying yet.</em> Azriel doesn’t answer for a minute.</p>
<p>“What if I fly with you” I look to him, meet his golden eyes. “Make sure you stay in the air” I’m at a loss for a good while. What I lack in words, my wings make up for in excited, faint flaps.</p>
<p>Azriel grins faintly and reaches a hand out to me, a brow raising in question.</p>
<p>I watch that hand, a mix of fear and excitement filling my stomach as I weigh the pros and cons of taking it.</p>
<p>Screw it.</p>
<p>I take it, and after tugging me close, shadows consume us both and we spear up into the vastness of night.</p>
<p>I can’t help but cling to him as we reemerge, despite Azriel’s strong grip of me and controlled flaps keeping us nearly stationary in the sky. With my face buried in his shoulder, his scent thoroughly consumes my senses, and while the air is much cooler this high up in the air, the warmth of his body wards it off.</p>
<p>It takes me a moment to gather the guts to lean back in his grip—loosen my own from him—and look down at the city bellow, dotted with lights that make the ground bellow appear like a reflection of the sky above.</p>
<p>The City of Starlight in all senses of the word.</p>
<p>Feeling the wind—the altitude—I find my wings spreading behind me, aching to soar along the currents and updrafts, all fear and nervousness cast aside in place of excitement.</p>
<p>“Ready?” Azriel asks, and I steady my wings, test my control over the muscles and find that yes, I am. As ready as I’ll ever be.</p>
<p>I nod, can’t stop the excited yelp as Azriel drops me, and while the act is strained and tiring, I manage to straighten out and glide through the sky, my heart beating out of my chest as I feel the air ripping at my hair, howling in my ears.</p>
<p>Laughter I cannot contain pushes out of me, raspy and raw, and my eyes drift to Azriel’s dark shape as he evens into a glide at my side, his face softened into a smile as he watches me, prepared to bring me back up into the air once the time comes.</p>
<p>It comes too quickly—I feel—the houses bellow looming closer and closer, and in one swift maneuver, Azriel gathers me into his arms and flaps us both higher into the air, my arms tightly wound around his neck as my heart sings at the speed of our ascent.</p>
<p>As he reaches a safe altitude once more, his arms lift me into the air before him, and my wings snap out wide, arms outstretched with them as I laugh—unhinged and bright—this sense of freedom more intoxicating than alcohol, sweeter than any treat.</p>
<p>The last I see before Azriel drops me is a grin spread wide across his lips.</p>
<p>Then I fall, bask in the feel of air ripping into my body as I tumble through the sky, my outstretched wings softening my fall just enough to allow me to level myself by a mere shift to my posture, and as I soar over Velaris, the Sidra sparkling bellow, I look over at Azriel, my smile still wide as I speak.</p>
<p>“Thank you” Soft, hoarse words. Words which leave Azriel stunned in surprise for a moment, his heartbeat stuttering for a second before he smiles, reaching out his hand for me to grasp, inviting me for another round of this playful flight.</p>
<p>I take it, feeling more alive than I have in decades.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Things are starting to happen. I'm having so much fun with this</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Spectacle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rather than spending our evenings sat in the garden, Azriel and I now spend it in the skies, working my wings back to health one flap at a time, often ending on the roof of the House for a short breather and calm relaxation before calling it an evening. Before then, my routine continues on as normal.</p>
<p>Except today.</p>
<p>Instead of spending the morning sparring by myself, I do so in the company of not only Azriel, Cass and Rhys, but Amren, the small creature eager to have me show them what I’m capable of. I’m happy to oblige.</p>
<p>Getting to try out my new leathers makes it all the more fun, though the blades Rhys has given me—a set of light dual blades—remain unused for now.</p>
<p>“So, Nameless, let’s see if you’re as skilled as you believe” I snort in mild offense and amusement, though I quiet down as she pulls out a slab of meat from her bag, encased in a protective warding. She sets it down on the ground before me, and I silently note that the boys have stopped fighting to observe what’s about to happen. “Slice up the meat with solid air” Amren commands once she’s stepped back to the sideline.</p>
<p>I cast her a look, wordlessly relaying the word ‘really?’ without signing either, and she nods, motioning for me to go on. I return my focus to the raw bloody meat laid atop the stone floor, and with a simple tug at my Seraphim power—leaving air and wind mine to command—I send a flurry of solid daggers of air into the slabt, slicing it to pieces.</p>
<p>I swear Cassian whistles.</p>
<p>Amren only looks at the tattered remains before she moves over and sets down three more.</p>
<p>Why she’s chosen meat, I don’t know, but she has. She could have made me cut through wood, or stone, but meat is her choice. I suppose it has combative purpose.</p>
<p>“Let’s see how you handle multiple foes”</p>
<p>Straightening, squaring my shoulders, I hone my focus on the three slabs, and with a series of precise cuts of golden air, the are all split into smaller chunks.</p>
<p>The violence—the implication of killing—leaves a steady numbness throughout my body and mind, leaves a foul taste in my mouth, but I disregard it and carry on with my practice, moving over to physical combat with Cassian eventually, and on Amren’s order, I use illusions and tricks to aid my fighting.</p>
<p>Cassian finds it unfair, but I thoroughly enjoy watching him punch at nothing, as do the rest of us.</p>
<p>Flying in the leathers that night brings us to the roof again, sat on the edge, legs dangling over the drop.</p>
<p>“You’re a good fighter” Azriel states, referring back to this morning, I presume.</p>
<p>“I don’t know how” I admit, my voice still hoarse, but clearer now than nights before.</p>
<p>Revealing my voice to the Circle didn’t warrant a reaction. I explained why I kept quiet and no one pushed about it. It wasn’t something that kept me up at night, but speaking freely now—having regained that part of me—is nice.</p>
<p>I still stick to shorter sentences, if only because my voice can’t handle much else before cracking.</p>
<p>“I was probably a warrior before” I state softly, tracing a finger along the now much clearer outline of my bargain, the days spent in the light of day having tanned my skin just a fraction already.</p>
<p>“If Amren’s right, you fought in the last war” I nod. “Are you sure you want to fight in this one?” I nod again, lift my head to face him, sat just on my left.</p>
<p>“I want Hybern to suffer at my hands” And that does not disturb Azriel in the slightest. “Simply observing their demise isn’t an option” He nods, face etched with pained understanding.</p>
<p>“I served as the previous High Lord’s spymaster during the last war. He forced me to watch most of the fighting unfold from afar, gather information on our enemies rather than fight battles for myself” As an Illyrian, being robbed the right to partake in battle is a great loss. “I watched while Cass and Rhys fought the real war” The guilt in his voice stings my own heart, makes it throb and twist.</p>
<p>Echoes of a pain long forgotten meddles with the pain of the present.</p>
<p>“A war cannot be won without adequate information” His gaze drops to the city bellow us. “You did your part, did it well” I place a hand on his shoulder. “Your side won the war” He shakes his head, and I let my hand retreat.</p>
<p>“I could have done better” He mumbles. “If I had, maybe Rhys wouldn’t have…” He trails off, stops himself with a sigh and looks up at the sky. “It’s in the past, I can’t change it”</p>
<p>“We can only shape the future” He looks to me, smiles ever so faintly, and I return it with one of my own.</p>
<p>“Your wise for someone with amnesia” I snort.</p>
<p>“Just ‘cause I only recall ten years of my life doesn’t mean I’m ten years old” He chuckles.</p>
<p>“Sure, I’ll take your word for it” The smile that came with the chuckle dies out in the wake of his words. “You speak of those years with little ire” He doesn’t say it as a question, but I feel that it is, that he wishes to understand why.</p>
<p>“I told you my theory before” I begin, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Whatever I left behind didn’t matter to me. I didn’t enjoy myself in the cell, but I don’t feel like where I came from was much better” Azriel doesn’t say anything for a long time.</p>
<p>“I was trapped in the dark too once” My brows raise. “My first memories are of endless darkness and torture at the hands of my step-family. Had the shadows not become one with me, I would have lost my mind in there”</p>
<p>“How’d you get out?”</p>
<p>“My brothers did this” He holds out his hands. “Left me outside to die. I was found by some from the war camp and eventually taken in by Rhys’ mother” I don’t know what there is to say to that. I have no comforts to give, and I don’t think that’s what he want either.</p>
<p>Instead, I take his hand in mine and hold it, looking out across the city below as I let the silence linger, let my hand show I understand, that he’s not alone.</p>
<p>He doesn’t pry me away. Actually, he seems to squeeze my hand ever so slightly, as if in thanks. It leaves a foolish smile on my lips.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Curiosity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ever since I arrived here, there’s been a section of the House that Rhys specifically told me to avoid. I have done so, kept to the music room and not much else, but with the steadily growing presence of unfamiliar scents in the air, I cannot keep quelling my curiosity.</p>
<p>It can’t hurt anyone if no one knows what I’m doing, can it?</p>
<p>So, bending into the light—not simply casting my mind into it—I slip into the restricted ward of the House.</p>
<p>For a time, I find nothing amiss, the hallways empty and vacant, until I peak into a room, discovering a Fae female seated in a small chair before the gaping window.</p>
<p>Her brown eyes are open, focused on something distant, far past the horizon, face a beautiful blank slate, cheeks sunken with hunger, eyes red rimed with ever falling tears.</p>
<p>She’s unwell, unwell in a way that feels so familiar to me it hurts, but I am not given the chance to think about it before the door to her room opens, and another High Fae female enters the room.</p>
<p>She’s devastatingly beautiful, with eyes a steely mercury blue, and a tray of food in her slender Fae hands. She holds her chin high, back straight in defiance, but I feel like it’s forced, like she’s maintaining it to keep herself from crumbling.</p>
<p>I keep close to the brightest light source of the room as I observe, hearing the click of her slippers against the stone floor, muffled by this form, but at least audible, contrary to when only my eyes travel the expenses of light in the world.</p>
<p>Both of these abilities have a time and place.</p>
<p>The female stops beside the other, placing the tray on the small table beside the lost one. Not once does her posture falter.</p>
<p>She tries to feed the other, but to no avail.</p>
<p>I wonder what’s happened to these Fae, why they keep to themselves her in this restricted wing.</p>
<p>The blue eyed female looks a lot like Rhys described Feyre to me one evening, I his only company with the others either asleep or out at Rita’s. He told me about her sacrifice, where she currently resides, and how we cannot move forward with any plans until she’s returned with the full extent of the information she’s gathered, explaining our current stalling and scheming rather than true warfare.</p>
<p>This isn’t Feyre though, but someone else.</p>
<p>She keeps trying to feed the female, with little success, the young female intent on crying and wasting away.</p>
<p>I wonder why none of Rhys’s servants help, why a healer isn’t tending to her instead. Because this female is no healer, her mannerism is too familial to be a healer.</p>
<p>Asking means revealing I’ve been here, so that isn’t an option.</p>
<p>So I stay and try to figure it out myself.</p>
<p>Staying proves to be a mistake, as the loud thump of a heartbeat enters the space, which means his shadows have snitched. I feel only a sliver of betrayal, but the shadows and I by no means have a pact. I know they tell him all they hear and see, of course he’d find me here.</p>
<p>His presence moves away, and I follow, follow him to one of the far off balconies of the House, overlooking the city and return to the corporeal with him, his face stoic and unreadable as he looks down at me, his body drenched in the golden light of dusk.</p>
<p>“Who are those Fae?” I ask, useless to dance around the subject now.</p>
<p>“You’re not to disturb them” His voice is sterner than usual, but I do not lower my chin, do not balk.</p>
<p>“I didn’t, I observed” He holds my gaze, his eyes unreadable. “Had your shadows not snitched, no one would have known I was there” A muscle in his jaw flares. “The young one is unwell” He sighs, eyes closing and cold façade cracking into something like dismay.</p>
<p>“We know, her sister isn’t letting us near” As I thought, then. “They don’t trust Fae” I frown.</p>
<p>“Why? They <em>are</em> Fae”</p>
<p>“They didn’t used to be” My brows raise, eyes widen. “They were Made Fae by the Cauldron” I look to the side, recalling the unearthly waves of power.</p>
<p>The <em>Cauldron</em>.</p>
<p>“I see” I mumble, returning my gaze to his. “What are their names?”</p>
<p>“Nesta and Elain”</p>
<p>“Who’s the doe eyed one?”</p>
<p>“Elain” I nod slowly.</p>
<p>“She’s lost somewhere” I state, and I watch Azriel’s attention peak. “In her mind, her grief, or somewhere else, I can’t tell”</p>
<p>“What does that mean?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know yet” Azriel’s jaw clenches. “Given time I could figure it out” He shakes his head.</p>
<p>“Don’t intrude on them yet, Feyre will find a way to convince Nesta to let us help”</p>
<p>“Why Feyre?”</p>
<p>“She’s their sister” An evening full of surprises, it seems.</p>
<p>“But she’s Fae”</p>
<p>“They’ve all been Made, Feyre by the High Lord’s combined magic” I turn from him, out across the city, taking in the sight as I process this information.</p>
<p>People being Made feels familiar, feels like something I have witnessed. I don’t know how.</p>
<p>“I’ll stay away from them” I promise him, fully intending to hold the promise. I look to him, glad to find his face softened back to the one I’ve grown to know, that makes my heart warm no matter the cold. “Up for some soaring?” That softens spreads into a smile then, and he nods.</p>
<p>Without hesitation, I hop over the railing of the balcony, letting myself fall freely for a moment before I spread my wings wide and soar, crafting myself an updraft and letting it bring me higher, Azriel right at my side, circling me almost playfully, and while I cannot quite join him, I try to.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Unraveling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Just the next evening—having spent most of it at Rita’s with the Circle—Azriel and I are back in the sky, dressed in clothes far from suiting, but neither could care less.</p>
<p>
  <span>Like most nights spent with him, it brings us to the House of Wind—to the flat roof—and as he sets me down </span>
  <span>on my feet,</span>
  <span> the feeling of weightlessness lingers in me. I can’t help but move across the roof, flapping my wings and taking flight for a heartbeat at a time, almost like I’m dancing with the wind, </span>
  <span>the soft moonlight catching on my white skirt as I twirl about.</span>
</p>
<p>Azriel watches me, the soft smile that never fails to melt my heart spread across his lips, and even if it should feel embarrassing to dance like this—childish and strange—I feel no such thing in his presence.</p>
<p>I stop, a laugh still lining my breath as I look back at him over my shoulder, unable to help but think him the most gorgeous male I’ve ever met, draped in shadows and moonlight.</p>
<p>But it’s not just physical.</p>
<p>
  <span> I feel as though no male has ever understood me quite as he does. Have never felt so close to another. Found such quick, deep, undemanding companionship. Have never found it so easy to laugh and smile</span>
  
  <span>as when I am with him. </span>
  <span>Never felt so connected to another.</span>
</p>
<p>Opposite yet the same. That’s what we are.</p>
<p>
  <span>I turn his way and approach, smiling without reservation as I near him.</span>
</p>
<p>Equals in every way.</p>
<p>I hear his heart thumping in his chest, hear it loud and clear in my head, feel his shadows brush against my skin as I stop before him, reaching out and grasping his hand in my own, giving it a squeeze, a silent act of gratitude he understands without fault, squeezing my hand back.</p>
<p>Mate.</p>
<p>The word brushes my mind in a gentle caress, and my body stills, my heart ceasing it’s beat, lungs stopping mid breath.</p>
<p>Mate. Mate. Mate.</p>
<p>It echoes in rhythm with his heart, growing louder with each reverberation.</p>
<p>Azriel stumbles back as if struck, ripping himself out of my grasp, his breathing wild and ragged, eyes shot wide.</p>
<p>I feel it then, the thin cord binding our souls, see it like a bridge between our beings.</p>
<p>Mate. My <em>mate</em>.</p>
<p>Gone is his smile, replaced by something panicked and distraught, his wings flared as if ready to take flight, body tensed with the same intent.</p>
<p>The sight of clear rejection feels like a stab to the heart.</p>
<p>“Azriel-” I begin, reaching my left hand out to him—to stop his retreat—but my eyes drift down to the light glowing at my wrist, radiating off of the bargain tattoo, and my jaw slacks as I watch it fade away.</p>
<p>Then it all comes crashing down, like a harsh unyielding wave sweeping me away, drowning me in memories of centuries long since past, consuming my mind and body as I sink.</p>
<p>Blood, death, names, distant places and faces. I don’t understand, I can’t make sense of it all. It’s a mess I can’t sort, too much to handle at once.</p>
<p>Azriel remains paralyzed before me as my knees buckle beneath me, bringing me down to the cold stone roof. I distantly note his body vanish in a cloud of shadow, hear his heart fade until it’s consumed by the overwhelming screams of my victims, by my own wails of despair so vivid I don’t know whether they’re real or imagined.</p>
<p><span>With the stars and moon my only witnesses, I relive every moment of my life</span>—<span>every painful little part of my miserable existence—and by the time the sun bleeds light into the darkened sky, I understand why I went to Hybern twelve years ago.</span></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Did you think this would be a happy, fluffy, story? You thought wrong.</p>
<p>Don't hate me too much, I always have my reasons.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Discarded</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I spend all night atop that roof, crying and thrashing until my eyes run dry and my strength runs out—skin scraped raw by the rough stone I lay upon.</p><p>The moment I return to lucidity, the weight of all I’ve done threatens to shatter me. I can’t even bring myself to move—get away from this roof—no matter how my body aches, how the chill has crept into my bones and numbed my limbs, how my wings have been left bent at an odd angle for far too long.</p><p>Because worst of all weights crushing me against this harsh stone is the weight of Azriel’s rejection.</p><p>He left me here. Felt the bond between us and left.</p><p>Moving—returning to the town house—means I might run into him, might have to face him. I don’t know what I’d do were I to find indifference in his eyes, find all we’ve become destroyed.</p><p>When I realized the bond, it filled me with a sense of completion, solidified the feeling of belonging I already had with Azriel.</p><p>He clearly didn’t feel the same.</p><p>He loves Mor, not me. Why would he accept me? Why didn’t I predict this outcome?</p><p>Why did I think I’d matter to someone?</p><p>Well, I suppose I didn’t remember then, did I.</p><p>Knowing what I know now, it no longer feels quite as shocking. In fact, it makes perfect sense.</p><p>To my parents, I was nothing but a burden—a child who couldn’t be normal. In the army, I was a tool used to achieve a greater purpose—not a person with thought and feeling. To my lovers, I was nothing but a conquest—a quick way to gain brag-rights in their friend-groups. To my friends… I didn’t have any.</p><p>Well, one, but he fell in the last war due to my own foolishness—my focus too set on one army to discover the other marching in from their flank, too blind to see the obvious trap.</p><p>A foolish mistake that could have lost us the war.</p><p>Drakon made it clear I could never repeat it, or he’d take away the one thing I still valued in my life.</p><p>My rank in his army.</p><p>I thought a place at his council would grant me some kind of fulfillment—some sense of belonging—and while it did so for a time, it didn’t last.</p><p>I quickly realized I only held that rank due to the power I possessed, not because my tactics in warfare held any weight. Only my ability to find his enemies interested him.</p><p>It was either that or the opposite.</p><p>People wanted me for my power—my usefulness—or they despised me for it.</p><p>Here, I thought things were different, and I think they still are, but if Azriel does not want me because of this bond between us—even as a friend—then this is not where I belong either.</p><p>I realized I didn’t belong on Cretea a long time ago, when I realized I had nothing without the war, that the peace left me with little to make the days worth living.</p><p>I jumped at the offer to investigate the odd whispers from Hybern, and when Drakon made me swear the bargain to protect Cretea I didn’t even hesitate or argue the terms.</p><p>The prospect of losing my memory was appealing to me in a way—offered a chance to start over—but I never intended to get captured, perhaps just <em>lost</em>.</p><p>Because Drakon made it clear that if I were to be gone for longer than a week, they’d assume me dead or captured, and no rescue would come for me. All in the name of keeping Cretea safe.</p><p>It made for the perfect opportunity to vanish, to start over somewhere else.</p><p>I didn’t care how obvious he made my disposability.</p><p>I still don’t.</p><p>Drakon can go fuck himself for all I care.</p><p>Even with Miryam at his side to soften him up, he’s still an ass to me—another male who saw my power and sought to cease it for his own personal gain, even <em>if</em> he had good intentions.</p><p>Here, in Rhysand’s Court of Dreams, I feel welcome, and not merely for my potential. They see it, yes, though have never pushed to have me help them. It has been my choice to fight with them since the beginning, and even now, my abilities are secondary to who I am.</p><p>I am both their friend and ally.</p><p>Their silent company with eyes in all corners of the world.</p><p>Nameless</p><p>But nameless no more.</p><p>Estelle. The names feels so obvious now, but just last evening I had no clue, and I didn’t care.</p><p>I still don’t. Nameless or Estelle, it makes no difference to me.</p><p>But Nameless was a blank slate I could have shaped into something better. That new start I wanted. Estelle comes with baggage, and a lot of it. 534 years worth, to be exact—if you count my years in Hybern.</p><p>There’s no starting over now, but there never really was. The core parts of myself remained untouched by the bargain, remained a part of Nameless, and those remnants were bound to eventually destroy whatever I’d come to build.</p><p>Just look where I am now. A discarded something someone didn’t want, littering this stone rooftop.</p><p>Shakily—my limbs like lead—I push myself up, sit with my eyes trained on the city nestled into the valley bellow, painted in the golds and tall shadows of dawn.</p><p>A place I could have called home. Now I don’t know what to make of it.</p><p>These people—the inner Circle—could have been family. Now I can’t bare to face any of them.</p><p>Listening carefully for a moment, I assure myself that Azriel’s heart isn’t within the House, then I bend down into the guestroom I’ve gotten in there—to bathe after my morning exercises. I can barely hold my own weight as I manifest in the dim room, my knees nearly buckling beneath me as I clutch the vanity.</p><p>Looking in the mirror, I find a mess, my eyes red from a mix of sleeplessness and crying, my skin scraped red but healing, dark circles leaving my dark eyes sunken. My hair is a mess too, dirty and grayed in places, but I can’t find it in me to care about any of it.</p><p>Even so, I have a bath—a quick careless bath—then change into one of my spare sets of clothes. From there, I bend out of the House, find a quiet park on the outskirts and hide in one of the alcoves, seating myself on the worn bench, assuming the painful task of figuring out what to do now.</p><p>Return to Cretea, stay here, or go somewhere else.</p><p>No other Court in Prythian would give me a home without expectations, but perhaps they don’t need to know I’m there, maybe a nomadic life is all this world has to offer me, bending between place to place to evade detection until the end of my days.</p><p>Or is that just my mind working out a way to avoid Azriel for the rest of eternity?</p><p>I sigh, lean down onto my elbows and bury my face in my hands.</p><p>I don’t know how long I stay like that, waging the war of my mind.</p><p>“You’ve stolen my bench, it seems” Amren’s voice snaps me out of it, and I immediately straighten, my mind torn between paralysis and the urge to bend out of this situation.</p><p>But running away from Amren is like asking to be flayed, my senses tell me, so I remain where I am, even as Amren’s swirling eyes take me in, honing in on my bare wrist.</p><p>“The bargain is gone” he states more than asks. I nod. “You remember” I nod again. Amren remains cold and calculating. “How”</p><p>Out of all things I’ve worked to dissect tonight, <em>that</em> is not one of them.</p><p>What broke the bargain? Why now of all times?</p><p><em>I don’t know</em>. Amren’s blood-red lips purse slightly, then she takes a seat at my side.</p><p>“You’re not talking, which means something’s wrong. You don’t like remembering” I’m surprised by her observation, but not for long.</p><p><em>I could do without it all.</em> She nods.</p><p>“There are things about me best left forgotten as well” It’s strange hearing such truth leaving this small creature’s mouth. “Were you the Lightseer from the war?” I nod. “Figured” There’s a long pause. “What will you do now”</p><p><em>Return to Cretea, stay, travel, I haven’t decided.</em> Amren’s features distort somewhat.</p><p>“Cretea holds no people, Azriel was sent to look shortly after your arrival. The island is vacated” I frown, but I’m somehow not surprised. My disappearance must have made Drakon paranoid, prompted him to move his people elsewhere. “You’re welcome to stay here” I look out across the park, peak out of the cove and spot faeries of all kind mingling about in the distance, young and old alike, all finding happiness despite everything going on in the world right now.</p><p>Staying means tainting this peaceful place.</p><p><em>Everything</em><em> living and breathing eventually withers in my presence</em><em>, I shouldn’t stay. </em>Amren watches me, unsure what to say, perhaps.</p><p>“I’d say the Circle disagrees”</p><p>
  <em>The Circle doesn’t know this me.</em>
</p><p>“Who is this you, then?” I stay silent for a time, in both speech and writing, then the words just pour out of me.</p><p><em>I am </em><em>a bringer of death</em><em>, </em><em>t</em><em>he light at the end of the tunnel. </em><em>D</em><em>espair follows me wherever I go, </em><em>and I’</em><em>ve </em><em>led</em><em> more </em><em>souls </em><em>to their demise than I </em><em>can count in a lifetime</em><em>. </em><em>To stay means to taint this loving place, there is no future for me here.</em> Amren continues to watch me.</p><p>“You belong here” Amren contests my last words, and the words feel like a punch to the gut, because I wish so desperately for them to be true. “You fit in with us as well as Feyre did when she first arrived. Whatever your past holds does not change that, in fact, it might be the very reason you belong to begin with” My mind drifts to Azriel, the guilt he shared with me nights ago now, so much like my own.</p><p>He still belongs here.</p><p>Everyone in the Circle harbor regrets, but their will to do better leaves them thriving. Their <em>dream</em> to make the world better unites them.</p><p>I want to be better than my mistakes. I find appeal in the thought of using my affinity for violence in the name of protecting the weak. I could do that from within this Court, could spend my days protecting these lovely people of Velaris, could help Illyrian females find equality. But I can’t do that correctly if I feel alienated by even one of the members.</p><p><em>Azriel disagrees</em>. Amren frowns, then her eyes widen.</p><p>“Oh” Is all she says at first, a near silent word. “Oh, I see” She continues, her eyes drilling into me so intently that I feel as though she indeed sees the cord binding me to wherever Azriel currently is.</p><p>While I can’t hear his heart now—he much too far for me to do so while awake—I swear I feel the phantom thump of another heart beating inside my chest.</p><p>“I assume it snapped into place last night” I nod. “And the bargain broke last night” I nod again. “Finding your mate broke the bargain” My eyes widen then, a memory of me and Drakon in the throne hall of Cretea surfacing.</p><p><em>“</em><em>Should another soul discover you upon your departure from the island of Cretea, your memory of all which came before shall be locked away, say the core parts of your being” </em>His words are as clear as the day he spoke them. <em>“Should you somehow escape entrapment, one thing may break this block in your mind. Choose wisely” </em>I can imagine myself staring Drakon dead in the eye as I speak my answer.</p><p><em>“</em><em>Should I find my mate, and our bond snap into place, the bargain shall break”</em> I see Drakon nod, and practically feel the burn along my wrist as the bargain etches into place.</p><p>I spoke those words assuming I’d never find them, that I’d be cursed to never have one at all.</p><p>Little did I know that the Mother had another sort of torture in mind.</p><p><em>It did</em>. I admit to Amren, not sure how long I’ve been silent. <em>Azriel left me on the roof of the House when it s</em><em>napped in</em><em>to</em><em> place.</em> Amren’s face cools into something lethal and dangerous.</p><p>“<em>That half-witted bastard</em>. How long were you up there?” Her immediate hostile reaction in regards to his treatment of me is surprising. I haven’t taken Amren for someone who cares openly about much, least of all did I expect it to show itself around me.</p><p><em>Until this morning</em>. Amren looks absolutely furious, the swirling smoke in her eyes almost bursting into flames. Were she to find Azriel now, I’m sure she’d rip him to shreds.</p><p>A part of me is glad he’s far, far away from me.</p><p><em>I was lost in my memories.</em> I continue, and she stands, fists clenched so tightly I swear her nails draw blood.</p><p>Does she bleed?</p><p>“<em>Cowardly Illyrian dog</em>” She spits, then whirls to face me, and I swear the world quivers around her, as if the light within her is warping it. “I don’t care how shocked he was, you don’t leave your mate like that” She takes a long deep breath. “Where is he now” It’s not a question, but a demand.</p><p><em>I don’t know.</em> Her nose scrunches.</p><p>“Well, then look down the bond and find him for me” I’m not sure I’ll have a mate for long if I do what she asks, but refusing her feels like a death sentence in itself.</p><p>So I close my eyes and visualize the bond, finding it trivially easy to cast my mind down the pale moonlight bridge between us as if it were the light of the present world, the space around it a mix of swirling shadows and glittering lights, not quite stars.</p><p>I don’t find Azriel though, but a gray cloudy sky and snow-capped mountains. It takes me a moment to realize I’m looking through his eyes, seeing what he sees, absorbing the light his eyes take in.</p><p>I hope it doesn’t blind him.</p><p>I try to look beyond it, but can’t, and the moment I try to feel him—unable to resist the curiosity—I am struck by such devastating turmoil that I’m shoved back into my body with a startled gasp, hand clutched over my chest.</p><p>Amren watches me expectantly.</p><p><em>I just saw mountains.</em> She tsks.</p><p>“Very well. Come” She reaches out a hand for me. “I’m buying you breakfast” Amren is just full of surprises today.</p><p>I gingerly take her hand and let her pull me to my feet, then follow her to a cozy café along the Sidra. She demands no conversation as I eat my breakfast sandwich and sip on my orange juice, allowing me to look out across the glittering waters in silent contemplation instead.</p><p>I appreciate her more than ever for it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Returned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I decide to stay, if only because I can do more good from amongst these people than I can on my own, and Amren proves persuasive.</p><p>Azriel however doesn’t come back to Velaris all day, and hasn’t returned the next morning either according to a mildly worried Rhysand expressing his concern over breakfast, the Circle gathered. Apparently he’s blocked his mind so thoroughly even Rhys can’t get to him. The subject of what’s happened to him subsequently becomes the subject of the morning as Morrigan and Cassian discuss it, Amren throwing in remarks now and then that aren’t completely hostile, even though I can see the anger seething behind her eyes.</p><p>The others can too, but they assume she’s annoyed about his disappearance for practicality reasons, and Amren does not correct them.</p><p>They ask me if I know where he could be, whether he told me anything. I shake my head, say I haven’t heard from him since Rita’s two nights ago. Not a lie, but it still feels like one. Bites like one.</p><p>But the bite of my half-truth is bleak compared to the hot anger looking at Mor breeds, the fact that Azriel loves her slipping poisonous jealousy into my blood. I hate it, do my best to quell it, but it’s there and it’s brewing a storm inside me.</p><p>The last thing Rhysand concludes before we depart to our own things is that he will scout head off to scout out the human queens, and no one likes it, but no one can refuse him.</p><p>I can’t bring myself to head up to the House and practice after breakfast. Instead, I retreat into my room with my new book about the continent.</p><p>The fact that Azriel’s cut himself off from everything is worrisome however, and soon I find myself sneaking down the cord between our souls, cautiously looking to see whether I can reach him, despite his supposed walls.</p><p>I can’t. Whatever left it open the day before has been tempered, leaving a solid mass of shadow between me and Azriel, and I don’t dare prod in case he notices me, so I quickly retreat back into myself.</p><p>He’s alive tough, the existence of the bond confirms that, so I will myself to remain relatively calm.</p><p>Flying without him doesn’t feel the same that night, but I just can’t resist the call of the clear skies and soft sea breeze, and while I still wouldn’t call myself recovered, I have significantly improved, able to flap my way to good altitudes all on my own now, and some magical aid, though I tire quickly.</p><p>Another reason I keep up flying.</p><p>I feel him return though—as I soar near the House of Wind—and I quickly fly back towards the town house, not so graciously landing in the garden, stumbling a few paces before I steady and hurry to hide back inside my room.</p><p>It feels so childish—so stupid to run—but I dread facing his rejection more than I long for his presence. So I lock myself away and bury myself beneath the sheets, though find no sliver of rest as his heart invades my head each time I drift, loud and near.</p><p>I quickly give up on sleep entirely, and once the hour is somewhat respectable, I get dressed and make my way down into the sitting room with my book in tow, getting comfortable on the couch as I read to ignore the shadows’ beckoning whispers.</p><p>Nuala comes with a cup of tea and a sandwich for me around seven, and I try to smile in thanks, but know it comes off as strained. She bows and returns to her duties, phasing through the wall in a flurry of dark smoke.</p><p>I nibble on my sandwich and sip on my tea as I read about the distant faerie lands to the east, finding a fragile peace in the silence for a while, until a loud banging on my mental walls startles me so hard I almost tear a page.</p><p>
  <em>Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.</em>
</p><p>It’s Rhysand, practically screaming at me to open my walls, dark talons digging into the light to no avail.</p><p>Despite myself, I let him in, and the feel of his magic is consuming.</p><p><em>It’s Feyre, she’s in danger, </em><em>somewhere along the Winter and Autumn Court borders. Find her, have Morrigan winnow in Cassian once you do.</em> The orders a precise, urgent, and he’s hardly retreated from my mind before I’ve flung it into the dim light of dawn, spearing for the south, to the vast frozen land of Winter, shifting east to approach Autumn.</p><p>I find a lake, find a group of people gathered around or atop the frozen waters, and I immediately recognize the blue eyes of Feyre, identical to Nesta’s, but not quite as steely.</p><p>Returning to myself, I find Mor and Cassian dressed in leathers before me, waiting, surely informed by Rhysand as well, who I assume is making his way back as quickly as he can.</p><p>“She’s on a lake in the southeastern part of Winter, just past the mountains bordering the courts” Mor nods and reaches for Cassian. “Azriel’s in the House of Wind, bring him too” Mor’s eyes widen, then she nods, and Cassian lifts her into his arms and lets her winnow them close to the House and get Azriel as well.</p><p>Amren bursts into the town house shortly after, her silver eyes snapping onto mine.</p><p>“Did you find her” I nod, which seems to ease whatever distress she appears to feel.</p><p>“Mor is winnowing in Cass and Azriel” She looks surprised then.</p><p>“He’s back” She states, her tone lethal.</p><p>“Last night. Don’t kill him” She snorts, though it isn’t a friendly one.</p><p>“I’ll just hurt him” I stand before my mind catches up with the action, my book put aside on the couch, and I have the nerve to snarl at her.</p><p>Amren just blinks at me.</p><p>“Typical Fae instincts” She drawls, then heads for the kitchen.</p><p>I sit down when I realize my mistake, working on calming myself as I wait for the males to complete their task, and for Rhys to come back.</p><p>Mor winnows them all right into the sitting room, Cassian setting down a young female onto the floor while Azriel lowers a red haired male who looks ready to be strapped to some torture contraption or flayed alive.</p><p>They both look like shit, bluntly put, but even as they speak, Feyre and this other male, I can only watch Azriel, standing straight and tall like nothings even remotely amiss, like he didn’t leave for two days straight.</p><p>His eyes drift my way once—a quick flick in my direction—and I find nothing but guarded cold in them.</p><p>Despite the heartfelt reunion happening amongst the Circle, all glad to have their High Lady back amongst them—Rhys most of all once he makes his grand entrance—I bend into the light and leave before any of the new arrivals seem to notice me.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>From now on, there will be a lot of plot intertwined from the actual book, a lot of scenes taken from it, so all that will rightfully be credited to Sarah</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Breathings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Amren quickly found me on the bench again, asked me to sulk in her apartment instead, and while a part of me suspected to receive a lashing for the way I snarled at her earlier, she simply offers me a quiet place to dwell in.</p>
<p>Thus, I occupy her cushioned armchair in content silence, doing my best not to acknowledge how Amren talks to a book—surrounded by other books on her lush carpet—curses it from time to time and tells it to shut up.</p>
<p>Whatever it whispers is muffled by the whispers I hear in the shadows of her room, but I do hear it speak from time to time, and it isn’t pleasant, not like the shadows.</p>
<p>Eventually, too curious to resist, I rise and stride over to have a look at what she’s doing, and she neither stops or encourages my approach. As I reach a pace away from her, I hear it speak loud and clear.</p>
<p><em>Hello, Lady of Light. Say, where does </em><em>your</em> <em>Lord</em><em> of Shadow</em><em>s</em><em> hide?</em> I simply stare at the book, made from what looks like metal. Amren glances up from her reading. <em>Seer</em><em> of the present. Heeder of the </em><em>V</em><em>oiceless. A duality unrealized. Discarded and wasted. A shame. </em><em>S</em><em>uch a shame</em></p>
<p>Amren slams the book closed and it quiets down.</p>
<p>“It never shuts up” Her irritation is clear, but I find I don’t fear her temper.</p>
<p>“What is it?” I ask, sitting down opposite of her on the rug.</p>
<p>“A headache” She’s serious, I can tell, as she rubs her brow as she says it, but I still find myself smiling. “And the Book of Breathings” That replaces the smile with surprise.</p>
<p>“I heard it was split after the war”</p>
<p>“Feyre united the pieces. I’m looking for anything useful in it” I raise a brow in question. “I’m working on it” From the looks of things, It’s not smooth work.</p>
<p>“Does it always do that? Speak in riddles”</p>
<p>“It depends, but yes” She doesn’t elaborate on <em>what</em> it depends on. “Don’t listen to it, it seeks to twist the mind” I nod, but it’s word still linger in the back of my mind. “You left without a word. Feyre didn’t even get a chance to meet you”</p>
<p>“I was hardly one of whom she longed to see again” Amren’s silver eyes hold mine.</p>
<p>“But she’ll wish to meet you. Rhys has surely told her of you, unless they’re too busy <em>mating</em> to converse” I push down the unease the mention of mating brings, ignore the bond and it’s phantom tugs.</p>
<p>“She’ll get to interrogate me eventually” Amren looks back down at the book laid between us, as if contemplating whether to try and read it again, but she stands instead, bringing it with her as she heads for her bed, placing it on her bedside table for later deciphering. Due to lack of space, a vile of old blood ends up seated atop the book, and while it works as a reminder that Amren is <em>other</em> and should be frightening, I remain unafraid.</p>
<p>Unease strikes me as a familiar brush of magic reaches through the door to the apartment, carrying a scent of citrus and cinnamon, followed by a knock. Amren glares at the door, says nothing in form of invitation, but the visitor still pushes open the door.</p>
<p>I turn in my seat to face them, even if I already know.</p>
<p>Mor seems surprised to see me here for a second, but replaces it with something more casual as she meets Amren’s gaze.</p>
<p>“Mind if I intrude?” She asks, closing the door behind her as she strides inside, not waiting for an answer before plopping down on the armchair I sat in before.</p>
<p>“Yes” Amren says coldly, but Mor remains unbothered, picking at her nails. Amren sits back down with me, snatching a thick book from the ones scattered around us. “Just be quiet” She snips before opening the book and delving into the text, but a part of me wishes she’d made her leave, my temper slowly brewing into a storm in her presence, no matter how I try to rein it.</p>
<p>Mor, luckily, stays quiet as Amren demanded, and I distract myself as best I can by twirling a feather I’ve shed between my fingers, the pure white shimmering in golds and faint silver.</p>
<p>I tense—cease all motion—as a heartbeat invades my head, and the shadows of the room thicken, his scent filling the small space.</p>
<p>Amren lifts her eyes from the book to eye the uninvited guest, luckily behind me, out of sight.</p>
<p>“You tempt fate, Shadowsinger” Amren’s voice is low and lethal. I hear Azriel’s heart spike, and it lingers at a faster pace than normal overall.</p>
<p>My own has assumed a racing pace that leaves my hand trembling before I assume the twirling again just to have something to focus on other than him.</p>
<p>“Stay quiet and I’ll resist the urge to skin you” I hate how her words makes me bristle inside, makes my instinct flare in an urge to defend. I manage to quell it, but it feels foolish to hold such inclinations when the male in question left me to suffer alone.</p>
<p>I swear I feel his eyes on me, feel them prickle the back of my neck now and again, and unable to resist the urge to know whether I’m imagining it or he’s actually continuing to acknowledge my existence, I steady my body and let my mind escape into the light of the room.</p>
<p>He’s taken up the other armchair on Mor’s right, his wings cramped against the backrest. His hazel eyes seem set on the cobalt gem on the back of his hand, but I catch it, that quick glance my way that lasts no longer than a heartbeat.</p>
<p>His eyes reveal nothing, are icy and cold, but he sees me, looks to where I sit, wings tucked in tight against my back, posture straight and solid.</p>
<p>Mor casts him the occasional glance, snatching his attention for herself, and silent words only those who truly know one another can share pass between them.</p>
<p>I never stood a chance.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Discussion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is very plot heavy, and most of the dialogue is Sarah's because of the nature of this story. All credit goes to her for that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rhys, Cassian and Feyre arrive too eventually, but they have the decency to knock, and I bend myself off of the floor before they enter, tuck myself against the far wall instead, partly masking myself in a patch of sunlight pooling in from a window.</p>
<p>Cassian and Rhys seem to bicker about something for a time, they and Feyre completely unaware of my presence, and that trend continues as Rhys moves the subject along, casting a glance at the books scattered on the rug Amren hasn't bothered to rise from.</p>
<p>“Nothing?” I assume he refers to Amren’s progress regarding ‘something useful’. She ignores the question.</p>
<p>“I don’t know why you sent those two buffoons” She casts a narrow glance at Azriel and Mor. “to monitor me” Amren sounds much like I’d imagine a cranky old aunt to sound like. I don’t know why.</p>
<p>“We’re not monitoring you” Mor says, tapping her foot on the carpet, she too now standing. “We’re monitoring the Book” As if having heard her words—heard it being mentioned—it begins to whisper.</p>
<p>Feyre’s eyes—still oblivious to me—snap onto the book, and I hear the book murmur in answer to her attention.</p>
<p>
  <em>Hello, sweet-faced liar. Hello, princess with—</em>
</p>
<p>“Oh, be quiet” Amren hisses at the book, and it actually shuts up. “Odious thing” She mutters, returning to the tome resting in her lap.</p>
<p>“Since the two halves of the books were joined back together, it has been… Known to speak now and then” Rhys tells his mate with a wry smile.</p>
<p>“What does it say?” She asks. Fragments of the words it spoke in my presence surface.</p>
<p><em>Lady of Light. </em><em>Lord</em><em> of Shadow</em><em>s.</em> <em>Seer</em><em> of the present. Heeder of the </em><em>V</em><em>oiceless. </em><em>D</em><em>uality unrealized. Discarded. </em><em>W</em><em>asted. A shame. </em><em>S</em><em>uch a shame</em></p>
<p>“Utter nonsense” Amren spits, casting the Book a scowl. “It just likes to hear itself talk. Like most of the people cramping my apartment” I wonder if Amren’s hostility has anything to do with the fact that the sanctuary she thought she was giving has been shattered, or if she brought me here knowing Mor would come, and thus Azriel, thought to test me. Or she’s just tired of the uninvited guests in general.</p>
<p>There’s some contentment in me knowing I was invited.</p>
<p>“Did someone forget to feed Amren again?” Cassian asks with a smirk, and Amren points a warning finger his way without even lifting a glance from her book.</p>
<p>“Is there a reason, Rhysand, why you’ve brought your yapping pack into my home?”</p>
<p>I watch them all form a small circle of discussion around Amren, still not bothering to stand or acknowledge their existence more than she has to. Azriel lingers against the wall, though, furthest from me.</p>
<p>Rhysand starts the talking, looking to Feyre.</p>
<p>“The information you got from Dagdan and Brannagh confirms what we’ve been gathering ourselves while you were gone. Especially Hybern’s potential allies in other territories—on the continent” Their names—however it hurts my pride to admit—makes me internally flinch, memories of hours strapped to a table—victim of their wickedness—intruding my mind.</p>
<p>I swear Azriel’s eyes snap to me for just a second, as if he felt it, felt me recoil, but I blink and he’s looking anywhere but my way again.</p>
<p>“Vultures” Mor mutters, and Cassian seems to agree.</p>
<p>Feyre looks to Rhys as if something is truly sinking in for her, and Rhys snorts.</p>
<p>“I <em>can </em>stay hidden, mate” I sink deeper into the ray of sunlight. I don’t catch Feyre’s reaction to her mate’s words as Azriel’s voice fills the space.</p>
<p>“Having Hybern’s movement’s confirmed by you, Feyre, is what we needed” I’m almost too captivated by his smooth midnight voice to hear Feyre’s answering ‘why’.</p>
<p>“We barely stand a chance of surviving Hybern’s armies on our own. If armies from Vallahan, Montesere, and Rask join them…” I shift my gaze over to Cass just in time to watch him slice a finger across his throat.</p>
<p>Mor elbows him in the ribs, and Cass nudges her right back. Azriel shakes his head at them both, shadows coiling around his being, his wings.</p>
<p>I do my best not to look too closely at that last part.</p>
<p>“Are those three territories… That powerful?” That she doesn’t know shows how young she is, but that she dares ask and seeks to learn is a positive, truly.</p>
<p>“Yes” Azriel answers, his voice void of judgment, void of anything really. “Vallahan has the numbers, Montesere has the money, and Rask… it’s large enough to have both”</p>
<p>“And we have no potential allies amongst the other overseas territories” Feyre continues her questioning.</p>
<p>Rhys seems to pick at his sleeve.</p>
<p>“Not ones that would sail here to help”</p>
<p>“What of Miryam and Drakon?” That she knows <em>those</em> names surprises me. “You fought for Miryam and Drakon centuries ago” Had I been a closer part of the fighting before the end very end, I would probably have fought beside him now that I think about it. “Perhaps it’s time to call in that debt” I’d be inclined to agree, if I didn’t know why it isn’t an option.</p>
<p>“We tried. Azriel went to Cretea” He gives the word to the male in question.</p>
<p>“It was abandoned. In ruin. With no trace of what happened or where they went”</p>
<p>“Do you think Hybern—” Feyre isn’t allowed to finish, and I’m approaching a point where I might show myself and add to the conversation. Maybe.</p>
<p>“There was no sign of Hybern, or of any harm” Mor cuts off her High Lady, her features tense.</p>
<p>She knew them too, I realize, was actually quite close to my keepers. She’s worried for them, but I know no harm has come to them. They ran when I didn’t return, and good riddance for that. At least they get to continue their blissful peace.</p>
<p>Everyone seem to share her worry though, as if they don’t see this little fact, but I suppose those who care worry even when there’s no clear sign of danger, worry about the possibilities.</p>
<p>“Then do you think they heard about Hybern and ran?” The High Lady is on to something.</p>
<p>“The Drakon and Miryam I knew wouldn’t have run—not from this” Rhys says then, and I leave the light and unveil myself, startling all but Amren, Mor and Azriel. The latter completely ignores me.</p>
<p>“It’s not too far fetched” The focus of the room falls on me then. “My capture would have alarmed Drakon, enough so to prompt him to run, if only for a time, to avoid possible fallout” Feyre looks stunned, but Rhys contemplative, his eyes drifting to my bare wrist, visible in my pale yellow blouse, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows.</p>
<p>“You remember” I nod.</p>
<p>“I haven’t gotten around to mentioning that, forgive me. Things have been hectic as of late”</p>
<p>“Is that a…” Feyre asks her mate, leaning closer to his ear, but she doesn't really whisper.</p>
<p>“It is, she’s with us, I’ll explain later” War first.</p>
<p>“Nameless has a point, but we should consider Jurian as well” Mor states, peaking my interest enough to quell the storm of her presence. “Miryam and Drakon, whether they like it or not, have always been tied to him. I don’t blame them for running, if he truly hunts them” Drakon could kill Jurian in a heartbeat, but I see why Drakon would rather avoid the bloodshed if possible, spare Miryam the pain of seeing her old lover again, hungry for her blood.</p>
<p>Rhys face shifts with some kind of realization.</p>
<p>“That is what the King of Hybern has on Jurian” He murmurs. “Why Jurian works for him” I knew he was back, but to think of him working under a male who once fought to end his kind feels strange.</p>
<p>Feyre seems confused as well.</p>
<p>“Miryam died—a spear through her chest during that last battle at the sea” I remember it too clearly, that final failure that almost had me killed—to have lost sight of his mate in that mess. Had Drakon not come up with his outlandish idea, he’d killed me where I stood in the rage that threatened to consume him. “She bled out while she was carried to safety. But Drakon knew of a sacred, hidden island where an object of great and terrible power had been concealed. An object made by the Cauldron itself, legend claimed” Hearing him retell it makes me relive the memories, and I sink back into the ray of sunlight. “He brought her there, to Cretea—used the item to resurrect her, make her immortal. As you were Made, Feyre”</p>
<p>The words prompt Amren to speak.</p>
<p>“The King of Hybern must have promised Jurian to use the Cauldron to track the item. To where Miryam and Drakon now live. Perhaps they figured that out—and left as fast as they could” She turns to look back at me, even if I’m not quite there. “What say you, Nameless”</p>
<p>“Jurian was driven mad in the end, I wouldn’t put it past him to be fueled by revenge” I answer, not quite turning corporeal, but my voice reaches the physical plane.</p>
<p>“But where did they go?” Feyre looks from me to Azriel, probably expecting an answer from either of us. Azriel remains completely still beneath her gaze against that wall. “You found no trace at all of where they might have vanished to?” Azriel doesn’t have to answer.</p>
<p>“None” Rhys answers instead. “We’ve sent messages back since—to no avail” His eyes drift to me for a second, seem apologetic somehow.</p>
<p>Feyre rubs at her face.</p>
<p>“Then if they are not a possible ally… How do we keep those territories on the continent from joining with Hybern—from sending their armies here?” She seems to wince at the thought. “That’s our plan—isn’t it?” Rhys smiles grimly.</p>
<p>“It is. One we’ve been working on while you were away” This, I've been informed of, been a part of, but only partly, my focus to recover. “I looked at Hybern first. At it’s people. As best I could. Nameless provided whatever insight she had” Feyre seems to realize where I’ve come from then, and another thing regarding her mate’s occasional whereabouts, and neither seems to please her.</p>
<p>Rhysand only seems amused by his mate’s worry regarding his safety.</p>
<p>“I’d hoped that Hybern might have some internal conflict to exploit—to get them to collapse from within. That its people might not want this war, might see it as costly and dangerous and unnecessary. But five hundred years on that island, with little trade, little opportunity… Hybern’s people are hungry for change” Blood, you mean. “Or rather… a change back to the old days, when they had human slaves to do their work, when there were no barriers keeping them from what they now perceive as their right”</p>
<p>Amren slams her book closed.</p>
<p>“Fools” She states, shaking her head. “Hybern’s wealth has been dwindling for centuries. Most of their trade routes before the War dealt with the south—with the Black Land. But once it went to the humans… We don’t know if Hybern’s king deliberately failed to establish new trade routes and opportunities for his people in order to one day fuel this war, or if he was just that shortsighted and let everything fall apart. But for centuries now, Hybern’s people have been festering. Hybern <em>let</em> their resentment of their growing stagnation and poverty fester”</p>
<p>I listen as they talk on and on about Hybern and the war and how terrible the people have become in the wake of their misfortune, how it has twisted their views to deem the time before the war glorious, when in fact it was not. It makes me drift into my mind—even though I listen, register their words in a way—makes it drift to the time when humans died on the daily, often right before your eyes, too tired to carry on any longer.</p>
<p>Sometimes, when they were so sick and tired of their existence, I’d help them. They’d look at me and their eyes would beg for it to end, and while I couldn’t grant them freedom, not back then, I let them find a swift and painless death so natural it would feel like drifting off to sleep.</p>
<p>I should have done more than that, but I didn’t.</p>
<p>I lead them into the arms of the Mother instead, became their light at the end of a long bleak tunnel of pain.</p>
<p>I should have been the light of freedom, not death.</p>
<p>I force myself back out into the present and listen to Rhys and Azriel’s subtle brag regarding their skillfully placed lies and truths in the territories we might find as allies or foes in the coming war, making the territories more focused on eachother than what’s going on overseas. Cassian’s been in on this scheme, and while I could have helped, I was recovering while this was going on.</p>
<p>Their amusement fades when the mention of the human queens surface.</p>
<p>“It drives you mad, doesn’t it, that no one has been able to get inside the palace” Feyre asks both Rhys and Azriel.</p>
<p>“You have no idea” Azriel mutters.</p>
<p>The discussion goes on and on, and I valiantly listen, intent on being a part of this no matter how displaced I feel.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Dinner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We gather for dinner some time after the lengthy discussion in Amren’s apartment, one I decide to attend, Azriel’s presence be damned. I still keep my presence discreet—easier said than done when you’re as bright as a beacon—but I somehow manage to avoid direct attention as I sip on my wine and observe the ongoings.</p>
<p>This dinner becomes the first I truly see of Nesta, and while she was a devastating beauty last I saw of her, it’s only been amplified by the elegant blue dress she now dons.</p>
<p>Mor makes a fuzz about wanting one like it, and Nesta immediately finds herself in my instinct-ridden head’s good graze as she speaks her first words of the evening.</p>
<p>“Fortunately for you, I don’t return the sentiment” It feels mean to find pleasure in Morrigan’s wince, especially considering I saw her as a good friend mere days ago, but she holds my mate wrapped around her finger and does nothing about it. I try not to let it get to me, but it’s difficult.</p>
<p>Amren—unfazed by Nesta’s harsh ways—falls into conversation with her, a rather one-sided one, speaking of how they’re the same, with power lurking beneath the surface, which Nesta strictly denies and is overall a conversation Rhys eventually stops in the name of saving our appetite.</p>
<p>
  <span>But Amren is right, something lurks within Nesta. I can see it somehow—if I </span>
  <span>look</span>
  <span> hard enough—this </span>
  <span>
    <em>glow</em>
  </span>
  <span> in her. I can’t explain it, it isn’t normal, much like Amren isn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>When Feyre begins to further apologize to Lucien when it comes to the informality of their dinners—stating Azriel is the only polite one—it breeds cries of outrage, mainly from Mor and Cassian.</p>
<p>However, I wonder. Is it polite to leave your defenseless mate on a roof all night? I don't voice that thought.</p>
<p>He smiles though, continues to devour his food, taking the praise with a bow, but I feel something down the bond, some quiver that doesn’t feel like it fits what he’s portraying.</p>
<p>Feyre mentions sparring with Cassian in the mornings, and I realize I’ll be getting another soul as company during my training, if I decide to attend at all. Cassian’s view on the importance of daylight and Mor’s answer, “We live in the <em>Night Court</em>” managed to make me smile, and Cassian’s complaint to Rhys about females and our High Lord’s comment about Cassian’s previous longing for more female company makes it linger.</p>
<p>Until I note Azriel almost consumed by shadows in his seat, something Cassian notices as well.</p>
<p>“Don’t try to blend into the shadows. You said the same thing” Cassian says, pointing a fork at Azriel.</p>
<p>“He did not” Mor protests, and Azriel’s shadows fade away. “Azriel has never once said anything that awful. Only you, Cassian. Only you” That he longed for more pretty faces does sound pretty bad, when you think about it.</p>
<p>From there, they fall to the subject of the meeting with the High Lords, who of us will attend and who wont, which is left undecided for the time being. Which is fine. But the mention of a visit to a Court of Nightmares leaves me a clear participant when it comes to <em>not</em> following. It would raise too many questions.</p>
<p>Things grow tense around the table though, until Feyre finds a way to ease it, bantering with Cass about when to spar tomorrow.</p>
<p>Then she says she wishes to learn to fly, and Mor spits her drink across the table, right at Azriel, but he doesn’t even notice.</p>
<p>After some discussing regarding the technical sense of that—Feyre apparently able to grow wings—and the time issue brought up by Cass, Azriel offers to do it.</p>
<p>To teach her.</p>
<p>It jabs at the part of my heart that misses our nightly flights, but jabs at another when I realize why he’s offering, why he’s the better option. Azriel didn’t get to learn to fly before he was much older, much like Feyre now should she try.</p>
<p>He was locked away for so long, robbed of his innate instincts to taste the skies.</p>
<p>It swirls the painful storm in me into a hurricane, and Azriel’s eyes drift to me for just a moment, the first time he’s acknowledged my presence since dinner began, the first time anyone really has, Feyre and Nesta and Lucien the main focuses of tonight.</p>
<p>I force the storm to calm, but it keeps swirling deep within.</p>
<p>Dinner doesn’t really get better, and I leave the moment it’s acceptable.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Blinded</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To say I had the self control not to peak on Feyre and Azriel during the first part of their practice would be a lie.</p>
<p>I did so from my guestroom in the House after having flown about the city for most of the day, practicing on my own. I Watched their ease with eachother, his apparent calm around her that he once had with me, now lost to this wretched bond I wish could fade if only Azriel would stop treating me this way. I only had the stomach to watch until he began touching her wings, feeling if she’d summoned them right.</p>
<p>I went for another long flight after that, until I practically crashed into the garden of the town house, my knees giving off a worrisome pop, followed by a pain I walked off as I entered the house and locked myself in the room I call mine there, for now.</p>
<p>I quickly realize my foolishness once seated in my armchair, realize how stupid I’ve been these past days. To give Azriel the brunt of the blame for our current situation when in reality we’ve both been avoiding eachother equally.</p>
<p>The first time I saw him again after the rooftop, I left the same way he did.</p>
<p>I ran, and he probably saw it as me rejecting him right back.</p>
<p>Stupid. Foolish.</p>
<p>Seeing him now isn’t an option, and he’s speaking with Lucien later, going to the other courts to scout. He probably won’t be back until later tonight.</p>
<p>Tomorrow, then. Before they go to the Court of Nightmares. I’ll make an effort to speak with him then. To repair the rift. But in the meantime, I’ll gather information we can discuss.</p>
<p>I’ll look for Drakon and Miryam.</p>
<p>Flinging my mind into the world, I make sure to memorize the way back to Velaris before I leave the wards behind, spearing through the daylight towards the distant island of Cretea. It is indeed in ruin once I arrive, so dead and still it is as if time has stopped moving, and no matter how hard I look, I find nothing hinting at where they’ve gone.</p>
<p>There are islands around Cretea though, smaller and inhabited for centuries, so thickly draped in fog and mist that no voyagers usually find them, take a wide berth around them in fear of the blinding mist. I spear for them, search each one I can find in the white fog, but no sign of life remains a constant.</p>
<p>Granted, I’m not surprised. If Drakon has ran with his people again, he would know to ward his new settling from my spying eyes, in case I’ve fallen into the wrong hands after all. Even if he were here, I might not be able to tell.</p>
<p>I keep searching though, until I worry about the sun’s trajectory across the sky and decide to retreat back to Velaris, eventually having dinner alone in my room.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Fawn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My plan to catch Azriel alone somewhere gets interrupted by the sudden change of residency in the town house, Feyre having ordered her sisters and friend Lucien to live there instead of the House of Wind. The arrival of Feyre—who informs me of this change as she messes with the vases around the main area of the house—interrupts my silent brooding over a cup of tea in the sitting room, and while Feyre seems curious to speak with me—learn more about me—her nerves regarding the coming guests leaves her fiddling rather than conversing.</p><p>The arrival of Azriel’s heartbeat in my head makes me fiddle as well, my middle finger scratching at my thumb, picking at the skin as I run over what I’m to say, how to approach him, but all that is thrown out the window the moment he enters the house, holding a motionless Elain in his arms, so terribly frail and weak.</p><p>Setting the Made Fae down on her too thin legs, Azriel ignores my presence, letting his attention remain on Elain and Elain alone as she looks up at him with blank, faded eyes.</p><p>“Would you like me to show you the garden?” He asks her, and little Elain nods, just once, and Azriel offers her an arm.</p><p>“Beautiful” I hear Elain whisper, her eyes trained on his hand, or the cobalt gem on the back of it, and I watch Azriel’s cheeks bloom with faint color before he strides for the back door, guiding her along.</p><p>The sight leaves me stunned enough that I don’t immediately follow, the thought of Elain’s presence as I face him daunting, making me hesitate.</p><p>Nesta comes stomping through the front door soon after, looking greener than what’s normal, and after Feyre points her towards the fresher, she storms there, slamming the door behind her. Rhys comes in shortly after, hands in his pockets.</p><p>I watch he and his mate speak in silence, both daemati, I’d figure, if Feyre was Made by the seven High Lords’ combined powers.</p><p>Then Cassian and Lucien arrive, making the room feel a little stuffy for my taste, but I watch with intrigue as Lucien’s eyes hone in on the back door—where Azriel took Elain—and his nostrils flare, a low snarl slipping form him, possessive, much like the one I threw at Amren.</p><p>“Relax” Rhysand begins. “Azriel isn’t the ravishing type” Lucien glares at him, but I don’t stay to see how it unfolds from there, standing and making for the garden without so much as sparing the other occupants of the room a glance.</p><p>I don’t have much time before they leave for the Court of Nightmares. If I wish to speak with Azriel before that, now is my only chance.</p><p>Yet I stall. I watch Azriel tour Elain through the garden—concealed in a patch of sunlight—until he seats her by one of the wrought-iron tables, Azriel seating himself on the chaise lounge, his wings spread behind him as he lets them soak up the sun. Cerridwen comes out with tea for Elain eventually, but doesn’t offer Azriel any, which leads me to believe he asked Cerridwen to come with some specifically for Elain, had a shadow send for her. He focuses on his sprawl of documents instead, while Elain blankly watches the world, not even touching her tea.</p><p>He’s already dressed for their looming trip, I’d imagine, his dark armor adorned with seven of the cobalt gems, brutal and fitting for a place named after nightmares. He looks devastating in the attire, so much so I don’t trust my knees to hold should I approach.</p><p>But I’m running out of time, and I have a report to give.</p><p>I know someone’s watching me form the town house the moment I manifest into the physical, but Azriel does not sway his focus from his papers, not even as I reach the two, and Elain’s head shifts to look at me, her eyes not losing their vacancy, but appearing to see <em>something</em>.</p><p>“Azriel” I begin, and I haven’t a clue how I manage to push his name past my leaded lips, or remain standing when his wings tuck in tight, a clear sign I have his attention, however begrudgingly on his part. “Can I have a word?” How my voice stays unwavering is beyond me.</p><p>“Later” He answers coolly, but his tense wings betray the calm indifference of his voice. I don't settle with that dismissing answer and keep pushing along.</p><p>“I searched Cretea yesterday” That grants me a lingering glance. “I searched the Misted Isles not far from there as well, to see if they might have gone there” His brows shift ever so faintly.</p><p>“Misted Isles” He questions without really hitting the tone.</p><p>“It’s a group of islands forever drenched in mist, few know of them say us Seraphim. Knowing Drakon, I figured he’d run there if anywhere” His eyes seem expectant as he holds my gaze. “Knowing Drakon, I’d also assume he’s warded wherever he’s hidden from my prying eye. My sight, if he’s there, cannot locate them, but should someone physically go there, things might be different”</p><p>“Are you asking for permission” I shake my head.</p><p>“I never want to see Drakon’s face again, having me go wouldn’t be politically sound” His eyes drift to my left wrist, just for a moment, taking in the bare skin now there. Then he looks back up at me.</p><p>“I’ll send someone, where are the islands” I bend the light to form a map atop the table between he and Elain, and his eyes drift to that instead. It’s almost relieving, and I allow myself a deep breath before I point out the very white part of the map.</p><p>“I can’t give an accurate depiction of the islands themselves, I’ve never seen them clearly, but they’re somewhere in that mist” Azriel studies the ocean around it, the landmarks of other islands dotting the sea.</p><p>“Are they dangerous”</p><p>“No, they’ve never held life aside from flora, the mist is so thick living beings eventually drown, but Fae can ward the mist away, so Drakon going there anyway isn’t too unbelievable” Azriel nods. “I suggest whoever you send ward themselves with a bubble of clear air before going in”</p><p>“Your wings” Elain whispers, her voice so frail. “are beautiful” It grants her my attention, and I find she’s indeed looking at them, her eyes tracing the layers of shimmering feathers. “Why are they broken?” I frown. “Why are they cracked?” I tuck my wings in tight.</p><p>“They’re fine, Elain” I say softly. “They’re not solid like Azriel’s, they re layered with feathers. It makes them look cracked” She shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything more, goes back to staring blankly at her cup of tea.</p><p>My eyes snap to Azriel as he gather’s his papers, and I make the illusion fade to stop obscuring some of them. Then he stands, so much taller than me than I recall, my neck forced to crane to look up at him.</p><p>“Cassian will stay to guard the house. Will you stay with her” The request surprises me, but I understand it. Cassian will keep an eye on Lucien, and I’ll look after Elain.</p><p>“I will” I promise, and Azriel moves to leave, but my hand snaps to grip his wrist and he stills. “Wait” I blurt, then take a deep breath to steady myself. Azriel stiffly looks back at me—his heartbeat pounding in my ears, mixed with my own—but I can’t bring myself to let go just yet. “Can you bring me a notebook and pen?” His brows furrow just a fraction, then he nods, and I let him go, let him fade into a cloud of shadow and leave, taking the lovely song of his heart with him.</p><p>I take over his previous seating, and while Azriel doesn’t return, a black, leather wrapped notebook and a feather pen enchanted to never run out appears on the table eventually. I assume he told Rhys to send it here.</p><p>I flip to the first page and carefully write out the brief conversation I had with Elain—marking who said what—and note down all the things she continues to say, about a fire bird watching her, how she’s scared it’ll burn her. I offer her words in answer to her own and write those down too along with whatever answer she gives, and it keeps me occupied.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Imprisoned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I help Elain to bed later that day, having managed to make her take a sip of her tea at the least. She falls asleep quickly once I’ve managed to tuck her in, clutching one of my shed feathers in her hand, something she religiously studied before, as if it held some answer to a question she didn’t even know.</p>
<p>I let her keep it.</p>
<p>Awaiting my friends’ return from the Court of Nightmares, I head down to the sitting room to go over the words Elain spoke. The low table before the couch is littered with books I deem to be Amren’s, but I let them be as I mull over Elain’s words that never quite make sense, adding what she said before she drifted away.</p>
<p><em>You remind me of death.</em> How one can say that with such calm ease is beyond me, but the fact she’s not entirely wrong unnerves me.</p>
<p>Cassian comes down to join me, but mercifully remains silent company, his mind focused on his task to guard the house, but also plagued by something that keeps him quiet. It looks like a deeply rooted worry, maybe even longing.</p>
<p>When they all do return, I quickly read that some things didn’t go quite as some thought they would, Mor looking especially grim and dulled by their adventure. But the focus shifts to Amren, and how she apparently escaped the Prison.</p>
<p>The fact that Amren once dwelled in that dark place of legend—full of terrible creatures best left forgotten—explains a lot about why she is the way she is, but not <em>how</em> she is, how she got out.</p>
<p>Rhys explains why they need to know, that this Bone Carver seeks the Oroborors for some exchange to give us aid, and Amren’s answer is so sweet and calm it’s chilling.</p>
<p>“What else?” She asks him, and Rhys carries on. By then, I’ve retreated to a part of the room that leaves me out of the mess I sense coming, my book and quill clutched to my chest.</p>
<p>“When we’re done with all this, then my promise from months ago still holds: use the Book to send yourself home, if you want” Amren only stares up at Rhys, the room falling so quiet in the wake of his words that the ticking clock on the wall marks the only sound, along with the fountain outside.</p>
<p>I watch Azriel move through the shadows, sensing the same threat I do, and I see him unsheathe a dagger from his belt.</p>
<p>“Call off your dog” Amren said, her tone lethal.</p>
<p>She bares her teeth at him, and while I feel something inside urge me to seek retaliation for her threat—well aware she probably still wishes to harm him for his recent behavior—Azriel remains the image of calm indifference, unfazed by the small creature.</p>
<p>His heartbeat betrays him though, having assumed a slightly faster pace under her gaze.</p>
<p>“Why won’t you tell us?” Rhys asks, not granting Amren’s request, or moving from his place.</p>
<p>I watch Cassian slip Nesta behind him, to shield her from any possible fallout, but the young Made Fae keeps peaking over his shoulder to see.</p>
<p>“Because the stone beneath this house has ears, the wind has ears—all of it listening” Amren begins. “And if it reports back… They will remember, Rhysand, that they have not caught me. And I will not let them put me in that black pit again” I shudder as I remember decades spent in darkness, dreamless and empty.</p>
<p>I feel a shield lock in place around us all.</p>
<p>“No one will hear beyond this room” Rhys states, and Amren looks over at the books littering the low table I just sat at.</p>
<p>“I had to give something up. I had to give <em>me</em> up. To walk out, I had to become something else entirely, something the prison would not recognize. So I—I bound myself into this body” I find all my senses completely honed in on the small <em>other</em> in the room, Azriel’s heartbeat so faint it’s merely an echo of my own.</p>
<p>“You said someone else bound you” Rhys questions, tone cautious.</p>
<p>“I lied—to cover what I’d done. So none could know. To escape the Prison, I made myself mortal. Immortal as you are, but… mortal compared to—to what I was. And what I was… I did not feel, the way you do. The way I do now. Some things—loyalty and wrath and curiosity—but not the full spectrum” Her eyes are distant, seeing something far away, reminiscing perhaps. “I was perfect, according to some. I did not regret, did not mourn—and pain… I did not experience it. And yet… yet I wound up <em>here</em>, because I was not quite like the others. Even as—as what I was, I was different. Too curious. Too questioning. The day the rip appeared in the sky… it was curiosity that drove me. My brothers and sisters fled. Upon the orders of our ruler, we had just laid waste to twin cities, smote them wholly into rubble and plain, and yet they <em>fled</em> from that rip in the world. But I wanted to look. I <em>wanted</em>. I was not built or bred to feel such selfish things as <em>want</em>. I’d seen what happened to those of my kind who strayed, who learnt to place their needs first. Who developed… Feeling. But I went through the tear in the sky. And here I am” <em>There are things about me best left forgotten as well</em>. Her words from days ago echo in my head as she stops her long, heavy speech.</p>
<p>“And you gave all that up to get out of the Prison?” Mor asks, voice soft.</p>
<p>“I yielded my grace—my perfect immortality. I knew that once I did… I would feel pain. And regret. I would want, and I would burn with it. I would… fall. But it was—the time locked away down there… I didn’t care. I had not felt the wind on my face, had not smelled the rain… I did not even remember what they felt like. Did not remember sunlight” A stab of pain twists my heart.</p>
<p>Even now, having seen sunsets and sunrises, stars and clear skies, tasted them. Able to remember everything from years long gone. I remember what it was like to not know, to not remember sunlight or rain or the stars.</p>
<p>As Azriel’s shadows retreat, I know he does too, knows what it is to be locked away.</p>
<p>“So I bound myself into this body. I shoved my burning grace deep into me. I gave up everything I was. The cell door just… Unlocked. And I walked out”</p>
<p>That burning grace, her inner light, locked away within to save herself from another kind of entrapment.</p>
<p>“That will be the cost of freeing the Carver” Amren continues. “You will have to bind him into a body. Make him… Fae. And I doubt he will agree to it. Especially without the Oroboros” Silence reigns supreme for a moment, until she continues. “You should have asked me before you went” Her tone sharp again, back to <em>herself</em>. “I would have spared you the visit” Rhys gulps.</p>
<p>“Could you be unbound?”</p>
<p>“Not by me”</p>
<p>“What would happen if you were?” Amren looks at us all, even me, before looking back at Rhysand.</p>
<p>“I would not remember you. I would not care for any of you. I would either smite you or abandon you. What I feel now… it would be foreign to me—it would hold no sway. Everything I am, this body… it would cease to be”</p>
<p>“What <em>were</em> you” Nesta breathes, escaping Cassian’s meat-shield.</p>
<p>“A messenger—and soldier-assassin. For a wrathful god who ruled a young world” Everyone seem to burn with questions, and I assume this exchange of truth between them and Amren is rare, perhaps even uncalled for.</p>
<p>“Was your name Amren?” Nesta asks before the rest manage to get their thoughts in order.</p>
<p>“No” The light around Amren seems to bristle, like some sliver of her grace is escaping. “I don’t remember the name I was given. I used Amren because—it’s a long story”</p>
<p>Nameless like me, her new self chosen and built.</p>
<p>I want to know why she chose Amren, why she chose me to be Nameless, but soft footsteps enter our bubble, and a soft “Oh”</p>
<p>Elain, surprised to see us, unable to hear us through the soundproof walling. I see my feather still clutched in her hand, even with her arms wrapped around herself. It's a little ruffled by her handlings.</p>
<p>Feyre immediately heads her way.</p>
<p>“Do you need anything?” She asks, but Elain shakes her head faintly.</p>
<p>“No. I… I was sleeping, but I heard…” She shakes her head again, blinks at the crowd gathered in the space. I open my notebook and begin writing down everything, as discreetly as possible. “I didn’t hear you”</p>
<p>“But you heard something else” Azriel says, stepping forward, closer.</p>
<p>I watch Elain back away in my peripheral, noting Azriel’s words as well, marking them as his.</p>
<p>“I think I was dreaming” She murmurs. “I think I’m always dreaming these days” Lost, lost in her mind, lost somewhere else.</p>
<p>What’s happening to you, sweet fawn?</p>
<p>“Let me get you some hot milk” Feyre says, guiding Elain towards the sitting room, but Elain shakes off her grip, heading back for the stairs. She speaks again once she climbs the first step.</p>
<p>“I can hear her—crying”</p>
<p>“Who?” Feyre tries to coax.</p>
<p>“Everyone thinks she’s dead” Elain says, continuing her ascend. “But she’s not. Only—different. Changed. As I was”</p>
<p>“Who” Feyre pushes, eager to understand. Elain keeps climbing the stairs.</p>
<p>Nesta and Feyre share a glance, both oblivious to Azriel’s approach.</p>
<p>“What did you see?” he asks, and I hear Elain pause her steps.</p>
<p>“I saw young hands wither with age. I saw a box of black stone. I saw a feather of fire land on snow and melt it”</p>
<p><span> I see what Feyre and Nesta are thinking. Thinking their sister mad, but it doesn’t add up to me, so I keep writing</span>—<span>to understand later—and no one seems to take note, say Azriel who casts me a glance. </span></p>
<p>“It was angry” Elain continues quietly. “It was so, so angry that something was taken. So it took something from them as punishment” No one seems to know what to say. I’m one of them.</p>
<p>Feyre looks to Azriel, desperation clear in her eyes.</p>
<p>“What does that <em>mean</em>?” Azriel’s eyes—previously trained on her sister—shift over to me, as if trying to tell me something, ask me something.</p>
<p>Then he shifts into the shadows and vanishes, and the shadows he leaves behind seem to beckon me to follow, louder than ever.</p>
<p>Ignoring how Mor watches the space he’s vacated, I pass them all and exit the building, clutching my book and quill as I spread my wings and let a surge of magic send me up into the air until my altitude is high enough for me to handle myself.</p>
<p>Following the call of the shadows—from within myself—I soar for the House, his heartbeat steadily growing louder in my head.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Again, Sarah gets the credit for most of the dialogue here. This scene is important though.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Fragile Alliance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The shadows guide me to an office, nestled deep in the House of Wind, a sole light at his desk illuminating the space, but Azriel isn’t at the desk. He’s stood before one of the many bookshelves lining the walls, putting documents in folders and putting said folders in some order he’s decided throughout the bookshelves.</p>
<p>He doesn’t startle when I enter, or when the door clicks closed behind me, confirming he’s been expecting my arrival, and I didn't just imagine his invitation.</p>
<p>“You’re writing down everything Elain says” He begins, placing one last folder in it’s place before turning to face me, still stood before the door.</p>
<p>“I’m trying to make sense of it all. Her words” I explain, and Azriel heads for his desk, sitting down, the chair placed in the other side a silent invitation for me to sit as well.</p>
<p>“Is there sense to be made?” Is she mad? The question he doesn’t voice.</p>
<p>“I don’t know” I admit, taking the seat and placing the book on the wooden desk between us. “But something feels off, her words are too specific, yet not” I open the book and push it his way, inviting him to read.</p>
<p>He takes it, and I realize he’s still wearing his armor, his many gems gleaming in the gentle faelight. Carefully, his scarred hand brushes over the page as he scans the text, his eyes revealing nothing as he reads the few pages I’ve already filled.</p>
<p>“You add our words too” He states eventually.</p>
<p>“To bring some kind of context to her words, if there is one, hidden somewhere between the lines” He lingers on the last page.</p>
<p>“You mark every quote with names except yours” He continues to not look at me, but I’m almost glad to be spared his intense gaze right now, alone in this dark office with him.</p>
<p>I wonder why he still seeks to live in the dark, if it’s to keep the shadow’s close to him while he works.</p>
<p>“I’m Nameless” That grants me his attention, his hazel eyes lifting to my own black voids, spotted with flakes of silver and gold, as if the two kernels of power in me—light and golden air—peak through in some places.</p>
<p>“You remember” That quiets me, leaves me torn between embracing who I was and clinging to who I could have become. But choosing isn’t really a choice, it doesn't matter.</p>
<p>“I’m still the same I was, my memories—there or not—change little” Azriel doesn’t look convinced. “The bargain left me a person in an empty shell, but I was already empty when I left” His eyes fall back to the book, as if my words were too heavy for him to bear.</p>
<p>I remember what I promised myself. That I would try to be inviting, look past his initial rejection and stop rejecting him back. Reclaim the openness we had. Mend the rift.</p>
<p>“Estelle” I say softly, and his neck cranes from his reading to face me, not merely his eyes. “My name. It’s Estelle” For a few heartbeats, he simply looks at me, a muscle in his jaw twitching, as if he’s searching for words.</p>
<p>He doesn’t find them, instead retreating to the book between us. His silence is somehow better than verbal dismissal, because this isn’t true dismissal, just him trying to move the subject along.</p>
<p>“She thinks she’s dreaming” He states, and I assume he wants my thoughts on that.</p>
<p>“She could be suffering from hallucinations. Being Made could have messed with her head” I say, voicing what everyone is thinking. “But I don’t buy it, it’s too simple of an answer”</p>
<p>“What other answer is there” I stay quiet for a moment, holding his gaze as it lifts to me, expectant.</p>
<p>“She hears things others don’t” I begin. “She sees things others can’t” I shake my head, looking to the side. “She could be like us somehow, she could be—” I pause, consider, feel Azriel’s eyes grow pressing, urging me to tell him. “She could be a Seer”</p>
<p>Silence falls between us both for a time, as if Azriel’s digesting the thought.</p>
<p>“That’s less plausible than madness” He begins. “We haven’t seen a Seer in millennia”</p>
<p>“And we’re the first of our kinds in countless centuries, it isn’t impossible”</p>
<p>“She was human”</p>
<p>“She’s been Made. Who knows what the Cauldron gave her” He holds my gaze. “Nesta took something from the Cauldron, why couldn’t Elain have done the same?”</p>
<p>“It’s a wild guess at best”</p>
<p>“So we do what we're good at. Observe. We keep monitoring her and log what she says until <em>something</em> falls into place, some event matches her words” Azriel takes a long, deep breath. I wonder if pushing the term <em>we</em> is too much too fast, feel unease settle in me as Azriel's silence drags on. I keep it from showing, leash it.</p>
<p>“Okay, we’ll watch over her” He concludes, and I let out a slow, long breath. “We won’t interfere with what the others do, but we’ll listen, wait for something to make solid sense” I nod, glad to have come to an agreement with him. “She asked why your wings were broken” He points out, flipping back to the first page.</p>
<p>A phantom ache pulses through my wings then.</p>
<p>“If I break my wings, we’ll know for sure, then” He doesn't look pleased about the possibility, which is somewhat relieving.</p>
<p>“Seers can see the past as well”</p>
<p>“I’ve never broken my wings”</p>
<p>“Hybern never—”</p>
<p>“No” I cut him off. “The king ordered they not touch them. If they could break my mind, he wanted my body whole. To be used” Azriel is motionless for a moment, then nods faintly.</p>
<p>I look to the clock on the wall, silently moving along. It’s late, Azriel looks tired, like the trip to the Court of Nightmare has drained him more than physically. I should leave, he’s gotten what he wanted from me. I shouldn’t overstay my welcome.</p>
<p>Wordlessly, I take my book and quill and stand.</p>
<p>“Where are you going” He blurts before he seems to realize it himself, and I pause my departure, seeing what looks like a storm of emotions in his eyes, one he’s working to temper, hinge.</p>
<p>“Somewhere” I say, not sure myself. “Maybe the music room” I realize, realizing my mind is much too full of thoughts to find sleep, no matter how I were to toss and turn.</p>
<p>Azriel looks down, nodding slowly.</p>
<p>“You play well” A small smile quirks onto my lips.</p>
<p>“I knew you’d been listening” His head snaps back up at me. “I could hear you, the shadows get louder when you’re around” He frowns softly.</p>
<p>“You hear them?” I nod. Nevermind that it’s his heart that mostly gives him away. He doesn’t have to know that.</p>
<p>“I don’t understand them” I explain. “But they speak” I swear something moves behind his eyes, a shift to the darkness in his pupils.</p>
<p>“I see” I wonder—for just a moment—if he means that in the sense of my own sight, sees glimpses of the world like an echo of my power just as I hear the whispers of his.</p>
<p>“As all with working eyes do” I say instead, relived when I see part of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, even if it’s weighed down by something else, that exhaustion in him.</p>
<p>“You… I’ll see you tomorrow, after I’ve had my lesson with Feyre” I stride for the door, nodding, but not quite able to look at him.</p>
<p>Should I… Should I invite him to fly? Just to try and help take his mind off of what’s plaguing him? Whatever it may be.</p>
<p>Would he want that?</p>
<p>“You’ll know where I am” I say instead—cowardly as I am—and retreat through the door.</p>
<p>But I did something today.</p>
<p>We spoke. One on one. Broke the long silence between us.</p>
<p>I did something, and I think I did something right. For once, I did something right.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I always thought it was weird that Azriel—who's supposed to be good at knowing things—didn't figure out that Elain was a Seer earlier. So I just made it so rare that he didn't consider it an option until now.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Honesty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Azriel finds me on one of the balconies of the House, seated on the railing as I gaze across Velaris, legs dangling over the drop, notebook and quill in my lap. He’s silent as he joins me, sitting down on the railing a respectable length away from me.</p>
<p>If his shadows told him where to find me, or he followed the bond, I don’t know, nor do I care to plague myself with the thought more than I have to.</p>
<p>“She’s seeing a healer at eleven” I state rather than greeting him.</p>
<p>“We’ll wait ‘til after, then” I nod, brushing some of the strands of pale hair that refuse to stay in my braid back behind my ear. Rounded, just like Azriel’s, though not quite, an old injury having cut the shell of my ear a little jagged. I don’t remember specifically what happened, but considering that the scar continues to my scalp, just behind my ear, I assume nothing good.</p>
<p>“Is she learning?” I ask, genuinely curious.</p>
<p>“Slowly. But she’s stubborn” Azriel answers, well aware who I’m referring to.</p>
<p>“If she manages to learn, even just a little, it might mean the difference between life or death someday” My mind drifts to Nephelle, who despite all the odds stacked against her, made all the difference in the end. She saved my life by bringing Miryam’s body back, really. I’m still in her debt, I realize.</p>
<p>“The Nephelle Philosophy” Azriel surprises me by saying, granting him my attention rather than the city bellow. “Rhys told me what she did” He continues, seeing the surprise in my eyes, or feeling it. I recall his brief visit then, long ago. I never met him, but I heard of his presence.</p>
<p>“There’s an annual flight race on Cretea to honor her” He nods, something Rhys told him as well, I assume. “I’ve won it a handful of times” His brows lift slightly, but I look out at the sky, partially cloudy today, but warm, summer nearing its peak. “Participating each year was one of few things I looked forward to” Azriel doesn’t comment, but I feel him watching me. “Some thought I was a prat for participating after already winning once, for winning again and again, but I just wanted to fly like it mattered for once”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you like Cretea?” I’m surprised he asks, but not because I don’t expect him to seek such trivial knowledge. But because it’s he seeking out information about <em>me. </em>My life.</p>
<p>“I did like the island, the volcanic hot-springs were relaxing. But I felt trapped. Purposeless" Unable to stop myself, my mind drifts to Jaxon, to how things might have been different had he survived, been there to spend the peace with me. “I wasn’t made to be confined on an island. I was born to see the world, and not only in a soundless flurry of images”</p>
<p>“Was that why you went to Hybern?” I sigh.</p>
<p>“In a way. I couldn’t see past Hybern’s wards, so when Drakon suggested I’d leave the island and look in person, I took it. I had nothing to lose”</p>
<p>“Even if you got captured?”</p>
<p>“Even then” He doesn’t seem sure what to say to that. Because he has so much to lose, so much at stake here. “The bargain presented a chance to start over somewhere else, to disappear and never be missed. I didn’t intend to be caught, just lost somewhere if Hybern proved to be nothing”</p>
<p>“What broke it” I tense, tuck my wings in tighter against my back.</p>
<p>No matter how I’ve told myself to be open—try to be at least—I cannot drop that bomb on him, cannot utter the truth without risking everything, risking this fragile peace we’ve somehow found despite it.</p>
<p>“I don’t know, Amren has her theories”</p>
<p>“She likes you” I shrug.</p>
<p>“She likes new, intriguing things to figure out” Azriel’s silence hints that I’m right.</p>
<p>“She rarely invites people over” I don’t comment, no point telling him <em>why</em> she did so, not that I’m sure myself, but I have my theories.</p>
<p><span>I debate telling him about the Book</span>—<span>what it called him—but decide against it. </span></p>
<p>Instead, I let the silence last a while, cast a glance down into the town house to find the healer still doing her thing, but once I return to my own eyes, a very random question presents itself to me.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Do you sing?” I ask before I can hinge myself, looking his way. His brows shift into a slight frown as he looks my way. “You’re a Shadow</span>
  <span>
    <em>singer</em>
  </span>
  <span>, is that just a title or do you actually sing” I swear a smile’s tugging at his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>“I don’t” He states, his features indeed lightening up a little as his mouth moves. “I think Shadowwhisperer just didn’t roll off the tongue quite as well” I snort, but quell it with a soft cough, looking down at my hands, resting in my lap.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Lightbender didn’t either, I’d imagine” I admit, well aware that I’m by no means a Seer, not in the ways that makes a Seer valuable. I have my own worth through my ability to bend light</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>pull it to me and see all across the land</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>but I’m no oracle.</span>
</p>
<p>Not like Elain might be.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>We should go. They’re trying something with Lucien, I’m curious” I snap out of my thoughts and look to him.</span>
</p>
<p>“Do we stay hidden?” He nods.</p>
<p>“Meet me at the top of the stairs” And mere moments later, he’s gone in a cloud of living shadow, trailing down through the shadows cast by the balconies.</p>
<p>I clutch my book firmly and drop off the balcony, wings tucked in tight as I fall for a moment before spreading them wide and leveling out, gliding over the city before bending the rest of the way to the stairs, finding Azriel half-concealed in shadows along one of the walls before the stairwell, and I take up the spot on the other side, keeping half corporeal in a patch of faelight as I open my notebook, ready to write.</p>
<p>Azriel keenly listens to the shadows around him, telling him what’s going on downstairs, and I cast half my mind down to see—however disorienting it is, my need to stay conscious to write deeming it a necessity—finding a tense little tea party between, Feyre, Mor, Lucien and Elain.</p>
<p>She isn’t talking, so there’s nothing to note. No one’s talking, actually. Yet.</p>
<p>It drags on, until Elain abruptly puts down her teacup, stands, Lucien doing the same shortly after.</p>
<p>I pull back into myself to try and listen instead of messing up my head on purpose, and the sound proves to travel through the house fairly well.</p>
<p>“What—what was that?” Elain’s soft voice questions, clearly startled by something.</p>
<p>
  <span> “It—it was a tug. On the bond” So they </span>
  <span>
    <em>are</em>
  </span>
  <span> mates.</span>
</p>
<p>I don’t dare glance at my own, stood on the other side of the arch of the stairwell passage, just over an arms-length away.</p>
<p>
  <span> I hear Amren say something</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>a scolding of some kind</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>but it’s too distant.</span>
</p>
<p>Then Nesta’s voice cuts into the air.</p>
<p>“What did you do” Her words are as sharp as a blade.</p>
<p>“Nothing” Lucien says in defense. “I’m sorry—if that unsettled you”</p>
<p>
  <span> “It felt… Strange” I can barely make out Elain's voice, so soft, so breathy. “Like you pulled on a </span>
  <span>thread</span>
  <span> to a rib” Is that what the bond feels like if tugged?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’ve never tried tugging, only went to his end of it, found his eyes and saw through them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Has he tried to see me too? Or does his power allow him to </span>
  <span>
    <em>hear</em>
  </span>
  <span> me instead? Hear what I hear.</span>
</p>
<p>“I’m sorry” Lucien apologizes again, but Elain’s answer isn’t one that makes any clear sense.</p>
<p>“Twin ravens are coming, one white and one black” I quickly scribble it down as neatly as possible.</p>
<p>Nesta brings Elain into the garden, and once Feyre goes to fetch her for Amren, Azriel decides to help Feyre smooth out the act of retrieving her sister by offering to sit with her, which works surprisingly well.</p>
<p>I bend up into the sky and make a scene of arriving from above, landing a few paces away to make it seem like I’m returning from wherever I’d been previously to anyone who happens to be looking, and I make a show of asking Elain if I can join them at the wrought-iron table as well, which she nods at in response, faintly, not quite there.</p>
<p>
  <span> And so, with Azriel sat on one end of Elain, and I the other—book open and pen in hand to write down anything </span>
  <span>said—</span>
  <span>we begin our own process of evaluation.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you ever find grammatical errors, don't be shy to point them out. My native language isn't English, and sometimes my brain just decides not to spot errors.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Observation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>What Elain doesn’t know—at least I hope </span><span>she doesn’t</span><span>—is that she’s currently working as a physical shield between Azriel and I, this lengthy span of time spent together in this close proximity slowly wearing at the tentative peace </span><span>I’ve found</span> <span>with him</span><span>, </span><span>my mind constantly </span><span>reminding </span><span>me</span> <span>of</span> <span>the </span><span>things we’re leaving in the dark—</span><span>leaving </span><span>unspoken—</span><span>making the atmosphere feel </span><span>heavy as Azriel bravely answers Elain’s nonsensical questions—growing ever the more frequent—while I write it all down in silence, unless she specifically addresses me.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>If Azriel also finds the atmosphere weighted is a mystery, because for the most part I don’t look </span>
  <span>at him</span>
  <span>, </span>
  <span>and when I do it’s not for long enough to find out.</span>
</p>
<p>She doesn’t comment on how we both make a point to look at anything but eachother, or how we both quickly avert our gazes whenever we accidentally catch eachother failing. She also doesn’t comment on our tense postures, how forcefully straight our backs are, even mine as I write.</p>
<p>
  <span> I’d been tense last evening, but not to this extent. Something about our silence—our lack of conversation—</span>
  <span>reminds me</span>
  <span> that there’s something we </span>
  <span>
    <em>should</em>
  </span>
  <span> discuss. S</span>
  <span>omething I need to find the guts to discuss with him eventually</span>
</p>
<p><span>Only when she says something and we share a glance to assure </span><span>ourselves</span><span> we heard her right does </span><span>my</span><span> unease shift into something a little more professional, </span><span>my</span> <span>mind</span><span> returning to the issue at hand rather than the unresolved issue regarding </span><span><em>us</em></span><span>. But that sense of professionalism vanishes the moment my pen stops moving.</span></p>
<p>That we’re being watched doesn’t really make things better, adds another layer of unease.</p>
<p>I can practically feel Nesta’s eyes burning a hole into my skull where she watches from the window, but I never acknowledge her, lest she might smite me by her gaze alone.</p>
<p>She doesn’t trust us, and I can’t blame her for it.</p>
<p>“Shadows and light are inseparable in all realities” The glance Azriel and I share lasts longer, but I tear my eyes away and scribble down her words. “Do you like the light, Azriel?”  Azriel takes a moment comes up with his answer.</p>
<p>Out of everything she’s said since we came here, this is the most topical yet random of them all. She almost sounds lucid too, like she’s slowly returning from wherever her words about ravens brought her.</p>
<p>“I do, but it can be blinding” My hand trembles, but I valiantly write out his answer, take a slow, deep breath to calm myself.</p>
<p>“Shadows are born from light, and light is defined by the shadows it casts. A timeless duality” My mind immediately thinks of the Book.</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>A duality unrealized</em>
  </span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I brush it aside and write it all down.</span>
</p>
<p>“Do you like the light, Elain?” Azriel throws the question back at her, and Elain actually looks thoughtful for a moment, emotes.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>The light makes the flowers blossom” A very Elain response. “But too much </span>
  <span>makes them dry and wither</span>
  <span>” I keep writing. “Too little kills. Too much kills” I dare glance up at Azriel then, only to find he’s already looking </span>
  <span>at me</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>“The shadows then, what do you think of them?” He asks, looking back at Elain, but her eyes do not meet his, set somewhere far away, but she emotes, seems here to an extent.</p>
<p>“They shelter the flowers from the light, balances exposure” She’s not wrong, she’s very much not wrong. None of this is foreboding either, just philosophical. It’d be nice if it didn’t make me think of what the Book called us. Lady of Light, and Lord of Shadows. I can’t help but make the connection, imagine that she’s speaking of us. “They also smother and kill if cast too deeply” I watch a muscle in Azriel’s jaw tense, as if he too is seeing the double meaning, even without the Book’s words to go off of. “Too little kills. Too much kills”</p>
<p>
  <span> For a moment, she goes silent, </span>
  <span>allowing me time to read</span>
  <span> through her words again, unable to deny the way it can be spun to apply to us, but also aware that I could be looking for </span>
  <span>some deeper meaning where there is none.</span>
</p>
<p>“The light’s fading, sinking in a sea of decay” That however, is not spoken with context or philosophical intent in her voice.</p>
<p>As I look her way, she’s staring directly at me, straight into my eyes. I feel like she sees right into the depths of my soul.</p>
<p>
  <span>When she looks away, she says nothing more, leaving Azriel and I in silence, and my hand </span>
  <span>leaded</span>
  <span> as I write down her last words.</span>
</p>
<p>“Should we head inside, Elain?” Azriel eventually asks, and when Elain absently nods, he helps her stand and guides her back into the house. I close my book and follow them shortly after.</p>
<p>He brings her to her room, and I go to the sitting room, taking a seat on one of the couches, mulling over her last words over and over.</p>
<p>The light’s fading. Is that me? Does it mean I’ll fade? Die?</p>
<p>“You look too pale to have spent hours in the sun today” Feyre states in form of greeting, and my eyes snap to where she’s stood in the archway. “I don’t think I’ve formally introduced myself. I’m sorry, things have been busy lately” Her smile’s apologetic, and I do my best to smile back, assure her it’s fine.</p>
<p>“I haven’t sought you out either. I figured you were rather preoccupied being a High Lady again, so I kept to myself” She takes my words as invitation to approach, it seems, as she comes and takes the seat opposite of me.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Rhysand told me the bare essentials about you. How you got here, the bargain, how much of a help you’ve been” She smiles, but I brush off her praise, hardly feeling I deserve it.</span>
</p>
<p>“I do what I can”</p>
<p>
  <span> “And we’re grateful you do” I smile faintly, and she returns one of her own. “Will you come with us to the meeting with the High Lords?” </span>
  <span>I consider it, the questions that will arise if I show myself. </span>
</p>
<p>“It’s better if I stay here. I can monitor from afar, but I should stay in Velaris. Having a Seraphim in the room will take away from the topic at hand. We haven’t been around for centuries, assumed dead” She nods, seems to understand.</p>
<p>“Monitor from afar?” I smile.</p>
<p>“I can see beyond the reaches of my immortal body, see all which the light grazes in the world. I can be there mentally, should you wish, or I can stay here and keep your city guarded. It is your call, High Lady” Azriel enters the room then, stopping by the archway, leaning against the frame.</p>
<p>Feyre looks between us, notes how my focus completely hones in on him the moment he arrives, and how Azriel seems to only look at me for a few heartbeats before his eyes drift over to Feyre, granting her a soft nod in greeting.</p>
<p>“How’s Elain?” She asks him, though I feel the question extends to me.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Distant. In her room” Fyere nods, her face solemn. Azriel looks to me again, pushes off of the frame in what looks like a hint for me to come along, so I close the notebook and stand, heading after him as he leaves, which I know Feyre observes, </span>
  <span>reads into a little deeper than I feel she should.</span>
</p>
<p>A nosy High Lady, it seems.</p>
<p>He shifts away, so I bend after him, not surprised when he leads me to the House again, probably to discuss what we’ve gathered today. He doesn’t bother with the office though, materializing on the balcony we sat on before instead, and I’m soon there with him.</p>
<p>“She could be both” He states the moment I appear. “Mad and a Seer. It’s said to sometimes correlate”</p>
<p>“Seeing beyond your eyes does that, as I’m sure hearing beyond your ears does as well. We need to figure this out before she strays too far” I lean against the railing, as far away from Azriel as I can be on this smaller balcony. The distance both hurts and relieves me.</p>
<p>“She’s implying you’ll die” So he saw it too, then. His tone doesn’t sound pleased about it either, chipped and straining to remain calm and even. His eyes are chillier than normal too, trying to guard his true feelings from showing there as well.</p>
<p>I feel his turmoil like a lump in my stomach though, nauseating. Or is it my own? It’s getting harder to tell the longer I’m around him.</p>
<p>
  <span> “If I do die in a sea of decay, we’ll have our answer” The shadows around Azriel defy the sunlight we stand in and thicken. “If twin ravens—one white and one black—arrives, we’ll also have our answer. We keep waiting, take precautions and stay patient” He seems reluctant, but nod, his eyes looking out towards the horizon, his eyes dark with something dangerous </span>
  <span>as his form grows less and less corporeal</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Try not to die” Is all he says before he fades away, leaving me on the balcony to go about the rest of the day as I please.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Gardening</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time passes, and with Azriel occupied with his spying duties and training Feyre, I’m left to keep Elain company on my own, Cerridwen and Nuala there as well at times, providing us tea and biscuits while I help Elain tend to the garden, following her instructions while pulling out weeds.</p>
<p>Caring for the garden seems to center Elain somehow, distract her mind from whatever plagues it to the point where she remains fairly lucid for most of the day, and with the summer birds singing in the bushes and trees around us, Elain and I talk.</p>
<p>We actually talk, and not about cryptic things, but life.</p>
<p>Elain tells me about the flowers, about those she used to care for in her old home, and I listen, ask questions, move the conversation along without bothering to write anything down, because this lucidity feels too precious to treat like a puzzle.</p>
<p>One morning, two days after Azriel and I spent our first real span of time together again, I am seated with the three sisters for breakfast. Feyre’s decided to take the day off from training to go to the library under the House with Nesta, but informing her teachers of that sends them straight to her doorsteps, demanding to know what’s wrong.</p>
<p>Feyre heads to the foyer to let them in—if only to make Cassian stop banging in the door—and I watch as Feyre accepts a tin of soothing salve from Azriel with a smile, and hear as she tells Cassian to mind his business.</p>
<p>After Feyre asks them to fly her and Nesta to the House, they both notice us in the dining room, just about finishing up breakfast. Even Elain has eaten a little today.</p>
<p>Azriel only bows his head in greeting when given our attention, but Cassian stalks right for the table, snatching a muffin from the basket right over Nesta’s shoulder.</p>
<p>The male’s <em>asking</em> to be maimed.</p>
<p>“Morning, Nesta” He says, face stuffed with the blueberry-lemon muffin. “Elain, Nameless” I nod in greeting, but Elain peers up at him, her eyes getting that peculiar look that tells me she’s slipped somewhere else.</p>
<p>Silently, I reach for my notebook, something no one even questions at this point, assuming I just like to write.</p>
<p>“He snapped your wings, broke your bones” More broken wings.</p>
<p>“It’ll take more than that to kill me” Cassian says with a smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Elain keeps looking at him, that same way she did when she spoke of me fading.</p>
<p>“No, it will not” Cassian’s face grows twisted, brows narrowing, as if he’s unsure what to make of the sister’s words, worried as all are about her mental state.</p>
<p>Feyre head over, placing a hand on her sister’s too-thin shoulder.</p>
<p>“Can I set you up in the garden? The herbs you planted are coming in nicely” Azriel and I share a quick glance, and he steps forward.</p>
<p>“I can help her” He offers, stepping to the table as Elain silently rises to her feet. I note no shadows swirl about him, but I still hear them in the dark corners of the room, ready to be summoned.</p>
<p>Nesta monitors him like a hawk as he reaches out his hand to her, but Elain doesn't care for her sister’s clear distrust as she takes Azriel’s hand. But she doesn’t move to follow Azriel as he begins to walk for the glass door leading into the garden. She turns to me instead. Reaches out her hand.</p>
<p>I forget what remains of my breakfast and close my book, tuck it under my arm and take that outstretched hand, not caring how Feyre watches, eyes wide in surprise.</p>
<p>And so, with Elain holding one hand of ours each, we head out into the garden, the day partially cloudy and shaded.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~O~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Azriel is clearly not a gardener. His hands are large, made to hold the hilt of a blade, not pick out the weeds from the flowers, which sometimes intertwine and call for intense care lest you wish to wound the precious plants. But he tries, and what he misses, Elain sees to that she pulls herself.</p>
<p>My own hands are molded after blades as well—roughened by years of swordplay and hand to hand—but they’re slimmer, easier to slip between the stalks in pursuit of the right leaves to pull. Elain still fixes my mistakes, but I feel like I do decently.</p>
<p>“What’s your favorite flower?” Elain asks out of the blue, eyes set on me. I realize she’s spoken religiously about her own favored plants days prior, so I suppose she’s slowly grown curious about my own preferences.</p>
<p>I sit back on the small blanket we sit upon, have moved once already as we finished clearing a section.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure. Cretea had a lot of unique flora you’d never find anywhere else” I keep pondering. “There was one flower tough. I don’t know the name, but it grew along the side of the volcano, like a bed of tiny red and orange flowers painting the black soil with color. It looked like lava” Elain’s eyes are wide as she looks at me, almost in awe, as if she’s imagining it. Azriel keeps working.</p>
<p>“I thought volcanoes lived in stories” I forget how young she is, how little she’s seen of the world.</p>
<p>“They are very real” I begin calmly. “The one on Cretea is slumbering, has for centuries, and so the flora thrives along it’s sides”</p>
<p>“I want to see it” She states, and to hear Elain <em>want</em> so clearly brings a smile to my lips.</p>
<p>“Let me show you” Her brows furrow faintly, but then the ground before us shifts into a lifelike depiction of the Cretean volcano, Askja, covered in red and orange flowers, snaking like rivers of molten rock along the black earth. Elain’s eyes are awestruck.</p>
<p>“Gorgeous…” She breathes, and even Azriel has stopped his work to see.</p>
<p>“Cretea was always lovely, but the isolation didn’t sit well with me”</p>
<p>“You left one prison for another” Elain’s tone grows distant again, but she shakes her head and resumes her gawking at the image I’ve crafted before us.</p>
<p>I ignore the look Azriel casts my way, it’s not important right now. Elain is lucid, I will not break this for some scribbling.</p>
<p>Elain’s eyes move to Azriel, and I assume Elain’s done looking at my former home and make the image fade away.</p>
<p>“What’s yours?” I watch him search for words.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it” Elain looks disappointed, but returns to her work.</p>
<p>“There are things you should think about”</p>
<p>For a while, we work in silence.</p>
<p>Then Azriel tenses, stops moving completely, until his wings flare out and he stands, his eyes steely and deadly as he observes the garden.</p>
<p>“Get inside” He orders us both, and I quickly dust the dirt from my hands on my pants and reach out to help Elain stand. Once I get her up onto her feet, I keep her arm looped around my own, casting Azriel a worried glance.</p>
<p>There’s nothing but steely violence in his eyes.</p>
<p>“Whats going on?” I ask, and those eyes set on me, losing none of their lethality.</p>
<p>“Someone's gotten into the city” I feel myself blanch. “Get inside, now” I don’t resist the order, guiding Elain back into the house while Azriel trails behind, his shadows loudly whispering in the air as he pulls them to him, to listen for the danger.</p>
<p>They’re so loud they drown out his heart.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Ravens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Azriel stations us in the sitting room, and his eyes alone are commanding enough for me to know that my place is by her side at all times as he fades into shadow, presumably to help handle the threat. Mor arrives shortly after he left—relieved to find us here—and while I feel that swirl of anger, It’s softened in intensity, perhaps due to Azriel’s more frequent company.</p><p>She asks where Azriel is, and I tell her he left to check things out. She only nods and sits down with us.</p><p>With Mor at Elain’s side, I move on to patrolling the perimeter of the house, draped in light and unseen by the mortal or immortal eye. Lucien’s magical eye doesn’t see me either as he arrives at the house. I continue to guard until I notice Feyre, Nesta, Cass and Rhys arrive, the former two of the four looking pale, everyone looking grim.</p><p>Rhys eyes snap to me when I appear, skittish and unnerved. Covered in blood, in fact, but not his own. He dealt with the threat then. I lower my head in apology and move over to lean against the wall.</p><p>“Azriel’s coming down from the roof” Rhys says to no one in particular, leaned against the archway to the sitting room, and indeed, Azriel appears out of a pocket of shadow and scans us all from head to toe.</p><p>Feyre takes up the spot on the other side of the arch, and then the discussion I feel looming in the air begins.</p><p>“The priestesses will keep silent about what happened today” I realize I don’t really know what that is, only know the order to stay here. “And the people of this city won’t learn <em>why</em> Amren is now preparing to hunt” That sounds concerning. “We can’t afford to let the other High Lords know. It would unnerve them—and destabilize the image we have worked so hard to create”</p><p>“The attack on Velaris” Mor counters from the couch. “already showed we’re vulnerable” An attack that happened before I came here, though Azriel told me of it, the first attack in millennia.</p><p>“That was a surprise attack, which we handled quickly” Cassian’s red gems—Siphons, I remind myself—flare. “Az made sure the information came out portraying us as victors—able to defeat any challenge Hybern throws our way”</p><p>“We did that today” Feyre comments.</p><p>“It’s different” Rhys answers. “The first time, we had the element of their surprise to excuse us. This second time…” Hybern was here, then. I should have figured that out sooner. I suppose I assumed. But they were here, some cronies of theirs were here.</p><p><em>Twin ravens are coming, one white and one black</em>. Ravens. Hybern’s ravens.</p><p>My eyes snap to Azriel, but it’s not the time to address it. He does note my gaze though, and I hope he sees my revelation.</p><p>“It makes us look unprepared. Vulnerable. We can’t risk that getting out before the meeting in ten days. So for all appearances, we will remain unruffled as we prepare for war” Rhys continues on.</p><p><em>Raven’s</em>. I faintly sign in Azriel’s peripheral, and his eyes dart towards the word, his eyes widening just a little.</p><p>“A war where we have no allies beyond Keir, either in Prythian or beyond it” Mor says, sagging against the cushions of the couch. Rhys casts her a sharp look.</p><p>“The queen might come” Elain cuts in. Silence follows.</p><p>Elain’s eyes are distant as she stares into the unlit fireplace, murky and lost.</p><p>“What queen” Nesta demands with less softness than I usually hear her use when addressing her sister.</p><p>“The one who was cursed” There’s not a single doubt left in my mind.</p><p>“Cursed by the Cauldron” Feyre states as if to clarify. “When it threw it’s tantrum after you… Left”</p><p>“No” Elain cuts her sister off, studying her sisters. “Not that one. The other”</p><p>Nesta seems inclined to whisk Elain away. Azriel steps over the threshold and into the sitting room, eyes on Elain.</p><p>“What other?” Not quite convinced yet, not quite. Elains brows draw closer.</p><p>“The queen—with the feathers of flame” Azriel’s head tilts, eyes drift to me. I nod, confident in my hypothesis now, more than confident. I’m sure.</p><p>Lucien’s low voice enters the silence.</p><p>“Should we—does she need…?” He doesn’t find the words.</p><p>“She doesn’t need anything” Azriel answers, and I know he’s accepted the truth as as fact. Elain’s looking up at him now. Unblinking. “We’re the ones who needs to listen… She…” Azriel trails off, looks to me, and I nod at him to go on. “A Seer” He finally says, looking back down at Elain, addressing her more so than anyone else.. “The Cauldron made you a Seer”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Revelation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everyone gawks, the exact reason why I needed to find proof. Few would believe such a claim unless it has clear grounding evidence. It has that now. This attack has grounded it in reality.</p>
<p>Elain turns to Mor, as if knowing she can see the truth for herself as she asks. “Is that what this is?”</p>
<p>She sounds so normal, so <em>present</em>.</p>
<p>Mor—eyes darting across Elain, lips parted—eventually nods, seeing the truth in Azriel's statement. Lucien’s moved over to observe his mate as well, metal eye whirling as he takes her in.</p>
<p>Feyre’s watching me and Azriel, as if realizing what we’ve been up to, why we’ve been spending so much time with her sister.</p>
<p>“There is another queen?” Azriel asks, ignoring Feyre’s pointed gaze. Elain squints, as if the question proves to be a path to the right answer.</p>
<p>“Yes” She concludes.</p>
<p>“The sixth queen” Mor breathes. “The queen the golden one said wasn’t ill…”</p>
<p>“She said not to trust the other queens because of it” Feyre adds, and I watch as everything falls into place for her too. “You stole from the Cauldron” Feyre says, turning towards Nesta. “But what if the Cauldron <em>gave</em> something to Elain?” I shoot Azriel a look as if to say <em>I told you so</em>, but his eyes remain on Elain.</p>
<p>“What?” Nesta questions, face draining of color.</p>
<p>“You knew” Azriel says to Elain. “About the young queen turning into a crone” Elain blinks and blinks, as if our open understanding is dragging her out of the waters.</p>
<p>I should have pushed for this sooner.</p>
<p>“The sixth queen is alive?” Azriel continues to question, clearly much better at it than I am, my duties to Drakon rarely having involved speech, just observation.</p>
<p>“Yes” Elain says, her head shifting as if listening to something unheard. Just like Azriel and his shadows.</p>
<p>It’s been so obvious, but to make the others believe, I knew I’d have to wait until there was proof. Azriel knew too.</p>
<p>After what looks like a silent conversation between the High Lord and Lady, Rhys speaks.</p>
<p>“What sort of curse?”</p>
<p>Elain shifts to look at him. Blinks.</p>
<p>“They sold her—to… to some darkness, to some… sorcerer-lord…” She shakes her head. “I can never see him. What he is. There is an onyx box that he possesses, more vital than anything… Save for them. The girls. He keeps other girls—others so like her—but she… By day, she is one form, by night, human again”</p>
<p>“A bird of burning feathers” Feyre voices what I’m thinking.</p>
<p>“Firebird by day” Rhys muses. “Woman by night… So she’s held captive by this sorcerer-lord?” Elain shakes her head.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I hear her—her screaming. With rage. Utter rage…” She shudders. Mor leans forward, preparing to speak.</p>
<p>“Do you know why the other queens cursed her—sold her to him?” Elain studies the low table.</p>
<p>“No. No—that is mist and shadow” Rhys exhales a long breath.</p>
<p>“Can you sense where she is?” He asks.</p>
<p>“There is… a lake. Deep in—in the continent, I think. Hidden amongst mountains and ancient forests” Elain’s throat bobs. “He keeps them all at the lake”</p>
<p>“Other women like her?” Feyre asks.</p>
<p>“Yes—and no. Their feathers are white as snow” My feather, she kept my feather because… “they glide across the water—while she rages in the skies above it” Mor looks to Rhys.</p>
<p>“What information do we have on this sixth queen?”</p>
<p>“Little” Azriel answers for him. “We know little. Young—somewhere in her mid-twenties. Scythia lies along the wall, to the east. It’s smallest amongst the human queens’ realms, but rich in trade and arms. She goes by Vassa, but I never got a report with her full name” Rhys looks to be thinking.</p>
<p>“She must have posed a considerable threat to the queens if they turned on her. And considering their agenda…”</p>
<p>“If we can find Vassa” Feyre cuts in. “She could be vital in convincing the human forces to fight. And giving us an ally on the continent”</p>
<p>“<em>If</em> we can find her” Cassian says, stepping up beside Azriel, wings flaring slightly. “It could take months. Not to mention, facing the male who holds her captive could be harder than expected. We can’t afford all those potential risks. Or the time it’d take. We should focus on this meeting with the other High Lords first” I weigh my options, weigh them carefully.</p>
<p>“But we could stand to gain much” Mor says. “Perhaps she has an army—” Cassian cuts her off.</p>
<p>“Perhaps she does. But if she’s cursed, who will lead it? And if her kingdom is so far away… they have to travel the mortal way, too. You remember how slow they moved, how quickly they died—” I swallow down the unease the memories cause.</p>
<p>“It’s worth a try” Mor cuts him off right back.</p>
<p>“You’re needed here” Cassian says. I try to ignore how Azriel appears inclined to agree, don't let it bother me. It shouldn’t, because it’s true. “I need you on the battlefield—not traipsing through the continent. The <em>human</em> half of it. If those queens have rallied armies to offer Hybern, they’re no doubt standing between you and Queen Vassa” I could go though, I could—</p>
<p>“You don’t give me orders—”</p>
<p>“No, but I do” Rhys cuts Mor off. “Don’t give me that look. He’s right—we need you here, Mor” But not me, I don’t need to be here, I could go. I— My wings would make it difficult to blend in, but I could be invisible, soaring over the continent, searching. Until nightfall. Night would make me vulnerable. Fae can always glamour, I can’t always hold an illusion.</p>
<p>“There’s a reason Elain is seeing these things.” Mor tries to push. “She was right about the other queen turning old, about the Ravens’ attack—<em>why</em> is she being sent this image? <em>Why </em>is she hearing this queen? It must be vital. If we ignore it, perhaps we’ll deserve to fail”</p>
<p>Silence follows, and Feyre assesses us all.</p>
<p>I move to step forward, at the same time as Lucien speaks, taking my word away.</p>
<p>“I’ll go” His eyes are set on Elain, and we all look at him. His eyes shift to Rhys and Feyre. “I’ll go” He repeats, rising to his feet. “To find this sixth queen”</p>
<p>“What makes you think you can find her?” Rhys asks, his voice that of an evaluating commander.</p>
<p>“This eye…” Lucien gestures to his metal eye. “It can see things others… can’t. Spells, glamours… Perhaps it can help me find her. And break her curse” He glances at Elain, who’s looking at her lap. “I’m not needed here. I’ll fight if you need me to, but…” He casts Feyre a grim smile. “I do not belong in the Autumn Court. And I am willing to bet I’m no longer welcome at h—the Spring Court. But I cannot sit here and do <em>nothing</em>. Those queens with their armies—there is a threat in that regard, too. So use me. Send me. I will find Vassa, see if she can… bring help”</p>
<p>“You will be going into human territory” Rhys warns. “I can’t spare a force to guard you—”</p>
<p>“I can go with him” All eyes snap to me. “I can be unseen in the day—make us both unseen—and he can glamour us through the night” I watch Rhys evaluate, and I make a point to ignore Azriel’s eyes, how they’ve set on me. But Lucien brings the verdict.</p>
<p>“No, I travel best on my own. If I need to spend my magic to glamour you because of your… Less human appearance than my own, I’ll run out faster than what’s ideal” I close my mouth tightly, see his point. His chin lifts. “I will find her. And if there’s an army to bring back, or at least some way for her own story to sway the human forces… I’ll find a way to do that, too”</p>
<p>In the face of my rejected offer of aid, I slip into the light, keen on avoiding their eyes.</p>
<p>I tried, but I understand why it isn’t where I’m needed, how I’ll be more of a burden amongst humans than a help.</p>
<p>It still stings. That even now, here, I can’t find a clear purpose beyond looking at things.</p>
<p>But perhaps… Maybe I can stay and help Elain understand what she sees, maybe that can be my purpose for now.</p>
<p>“It will be—very dangerous” Mor states. Half a smile curls onto Lucien’s lips.</p>
<p>“Good. It’d be boring otherwise” Cassian returns the grin.</p>
<p>“I’ll load you up with some Illyrian steel” I notice Elain warily watching Lucien now, blinking, but says nothing regarding what she might be seeing.</p>
<p>“I’ll winnow you as close as we can get—to wherever you need to be to begin your hunt” Rhys says, pushing off of the arch. “Thank you” He adds, and Lucien shrugs.</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” Feyre questions the male one last time.</p>
<p>He glances at Elain, who now finds the embroidery on one of the cushions more interesting than her mate.</p>
<p>“Yes. Let me help in whatever way I can” Is his answer.</p>
<p>“When do you want to leave?” She asks.</p>
<p>“Tomorrow” He sounds sure, very sure of this. “I’ll prepare for the rest of today, and leave after breakfast tomorrow morning” He looks to Rhys. “If that works for you” Rhys waves an idle hand.</p>
<p>“For what you’re about to do, Lucien, we’ll make it work”</p>
<p>Silence follows those words as we all fall into our own thoughts. Then Rhys jerks his chin in Azriel’s direction, and he vanishes without a word, understanding whatever silent order Rhys gave.</p>
<p>“Find out if keir and his Darkbringers had any attacks” Rhys orders Cass and Mor, who both nod and leave. The Rhys looks to where I was before, as if he knows I’m still there, but hidden. I read it as dismissal, that I should leave Elain and Lucien to themselves, as he and his mate—even Nesta—seem inclined to do. So I make the light quiver in response before I shoot out of the House, keeping a careful eye trained on Velaris as I pass over the city, on the people as I search for danger.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm running out of prewritten chapters, and I'm also running out of noted pages from the book to help me keep track of the storyline. Acowar is currently in my sister's possession, so until I manage to snatch it from her again, I might not be able to write much. But for now, everything's fine.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Message</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I don’t ask what Amren being on the hunt meant as I silently keep her company in her loft of an apartment, treating myself to one of her ancient books I only partly understand. I just know offerings of blood were presented on people’s porches, the little I dared peak from my room in the House. I stopped peaking shortly after discovering that.</p>
<p>I found her at the bench this morning, probably mulling over her lack of findings during her long night prowling, and to my surprise, she invited me over.</p>
<p>I asked her why this time, and she said she finds my company more than tolerable, which I took as a compliment.</p>
<p>“How's the situation with your mate, Nameless” She asks, not looking up from her book. The word makes me tense, but I still push myself to speak. That she still does not ask about my real name is also peculiar, but secondary.</p>
<p>“We coexist” Amren’s brows raise and fall in quick succession.</p>
<p>“You both spent a lot of time with Elain”</p>
<p>“We were investigating my theory, that she could be a Seer”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you share this theory earlier?”</p>
<p>“Would you have believed me?” Amren snorts.</p>
<p>“Maybe, maybe not” She shrugs. “But now we know. Now we can help her” I nod, agreeing.</p>
<p>“I will show her how I handled seeing things, hopefully it somewhat correlates” Amren only nods, trusting I would know, it seems. “Azriel can help her with the voices, it’s not my expertise” She keeps nodding.</p>
<p>“Have you two even acknowledged the bond at all?” She asks, returning to the subject of us. I let the silence drag.</p>
<p>“No” I admit. “I know he feels it, but he's adamant about not discussing it, so I don’t push it either” Amren says nothing. “I’m content like this. I’m just glad he looks at me again, talks to me”</p>
<p>“The boy isn’t ready” I frown, lift my gaze to my ancient friend. “I have watched him pin after Mor for centuries, he isn’t ready to let that infatuation go, or ready to face what the bond means for you both” I look down, nodding softly.</p>
<p>“I don’t blame him, I… Would have probably felt the same, had it been reversed” Amren hums.</p>
<p>“I don’t think you’re ready either” I keep silent, unable to deny her. I watch Amren open her mouth to say something more, but a letter appears between us, and her swirling eyes set on the envelope.</p>
<p><em>Varian</em>, the back of it reads, and Amren snatches it to her with the speed of a pouncing predator, tearing it open without a care for the wax seal. Her eyes flick over the text, and her eyes grow lit with fury.</p>
<p>“What is it?” I dare ask.</p>
<p>“Bring me to the town house” She demands, tossing the letter to the table, reaching her hand out to me. I don’t deny her, grab her hand and bend us both to the house, and she barges right through the door the moment I manifest us both. I follow after in a hurry, but force myself to remain calm.</p>
<p>“What” I hear Rhys question Amren, voice serious and focused.</p>
<p>“Hybern has attacked the Summer Court. They lay siege to Adriata as we speak” So it’s begun, then.</p>
<p>Open war.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Adriata</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I messed up when I first posted this one. Hope it's fixed now</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I should have been looking, should have been monitoring Hybern's every breath.</p><p>The mental scolding goes on and on, and I know Azriel is having similar thoughts as he comes in through the front door, Cassian right behind him.</p><p>“Has Tarquin called for aid?” Cassian asks Amren. No one has asked how she knows about the attack, and I won’t reveal that in her stead. Amren’s jaw tightens.</p><p>“I don’t know. I got the message, and—nothing else” Cassian nods and turns towards Rhys.</p><p>“Did the Summer Court have a mobile fighting force readied when you were there?”</p><p>“No” Rhys answers. “His armada was scattered along the coast” He glances at Azriel.</p><p>“Half is in Adriata—the other dispersed. His terrestrial army was moved to the Spring Court border… after Feyre. The closest legion is perhaps three days’ march away. Very few can winnow” Not good, is the summed up prognosis. Terrible, actually.</p><p>“How many ships?” Rhys asks.</p><p>“Twenty in Adriata, fully armed” Azriel answers, then Rhys moves on to look at Amren.</p><p>“Numbers on Hybern?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Many. It—I think they’re overwhelmed” Amren answers.</p><p>As they talk, I slipping my mind into the light of the world, but not fully, not ready to fully send my mind out there should they ask me anything.</p><p>I split my vision between here and there, and behold the vast opposing force of Hybern, indeed overwhelming Adriata.</p><p>Terrible has risen to horrendous.</p><p>I hear them question Amren about this Varian sending her letters, warning us, but am only half present. Until Feyre speaks.</p><p>“We cannot leave Tarquin to face them alone” I return to the here and blink the fuzz out of my head. Only Azriel seems to realize I’d been somewhere else.</p><p>He raises a brow, as if aware where I’d been looking as well, and I cast him a grim look.</p><p><em>Not good</em>. I sign faintly beside me, and his eyes drift back to Rhys, but Rhys attention has gone to Cassian.</p><p>“Keir and his Darkbringer army are nowhere near ready to march. How soon can the Illyrian legions fly?”</p><p> </p><p>~O~</p><p> </p><p>I don’t stick around once Rhys, Cass and Azriel leave, armed and armored to the teeth, off to do their part. I go to do mine, changing swiftly into my flying leathers, strapping the twin blades Rhys gave me crossed to my back—between my wings—and then redo my braid in favor of a tight Seraphim war-knot.</p><p>Mor hands me a bunch of daggers from her stash as I pass her in the hall, and I carefully strap them to my belt, well aware that one can never be too armed in war.</p><p>I join her and Feyre in the foyer, waiting for the order to join the males, to join the army and fight.</p><p>I’m not sure what my purpose will be, but I’ll be killing Hybern soldiers even if it means the death of me. I’ll enjoy it.</p><p>I don’t care how horrible it makes me.</p><p>“Will you fight?” Nesta asks from her place halfway up the stairs.</p><p>“We’ll fight if it’s required” Feyre answers, checking the knives strapped to her belt.</p><p>We all wear Illyrian leathers—look almost identical—but I note that while my blades are what I’d consider Illyrian steel replicas of Seraphim blades, Mor’s <em>are</em> Seraphim blades, slim and bright like lighting.</p><p>“What do you know of battle?” Nesta questions, and while I only cast her a look, Mor speaks.</p><p>“We know plenty” She says, fiddling with her golden braid down her back, and I set my eyes back on the front door, ready to go.</p><p>Nesta and Elain will remain here with Amren, Amren assigned to watch over them and Velaris as a whole. She only gave me a curt nod before she left to stock up on blood to feed her stay. It felt grimly like a farewell, and it might as well be.</p><p>War is never certain.</p><p>“We’ll send word when we can” Feyre tells her sister, but she’s not given a reply.</p><p>I feel like the world shudders, the earth quivers beneath my feet. Shortly after, Feyre speaks.</p><p>“They’re arrived. Let’s go” She grips Mor’s arm to let her winnow us in, and I take her other silently. But Mor doesn’t winnow us, she turns to look at Nesta instead.</p><p>“It’s nothing we can’t handle” Both her smile and tone is cocky. Then black wind roars through my ears, and we’re brought somewhere else.</p><p>To blinding light and scorching heat. To screams and thunderous booming and metal clashing against metal.</p><p>The sound of battle has not graced my ears like this in centuries, and while the experience of winnowing was unpleasant, it’s effect is washed away as the deadly calm of battle begins to soak into my blood, honing my senses to the bare essential primal parts needed in order to do what must be done, discarding all emotions to be dealt with later.</p><p>The Illyrian army and our male members of the Court have already joined the chaos bellow this hill that Mor winnowed us to, and my blood is pumping with the urge to join, to do my part. To help stop the red tainting the waters from being the product of lost innocent lives.</p><p>“Those are Tarquin’s ships” Mor points out, but my eyes are on the city, where countless defenseless faeries are screaming, shouting for help. “No one else has come” Mor murmurs. “No other courts”</p><p>“Rhys’ power is either already nearly spent or… they’ve got something working against it” Feyre states, and while I stay to see where I will be ordered to go, my mind is not entirely here, already set on where I <em>should</em> be. Where I should have always been. “More of that faebane?” I note the mention of that terrible powder and craft a shield of air around my face, to repel any inhalation.</p><p>“Hybern would be stupid not to use it”</p><p>What passes between her and Feyre—about the terror of war—does not reach me. Not even centuries of peace could make me forget what it’s like. I’ve seen too much to forget.</p><p>“We’re to go to the palace” Mor says, bound to bring us in the opposite direction of where I wish to go. I look to her, watch her shoulders square. “Soldiers have reached it’s northern side, and their defenses are surrounded” Feyre nods, unsheathes her blade alongside Mor</p><p>“I’ll go into the city” Mor’s eyes snap to me. “I will do no good cramped inside a palace. I’ll help keep the soldiers away from the citizens” Mor nods, once, and I read it as my order to go.</p><p>I don’t waste a second before I bend into the light of this scorching summer sun and spear for the city, filled with wails and cries of helpless faeries.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Slaughter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That more of Rhys’ soldiers have not been sent to the city itself is both a blessing and a curse. Because it makes it so much easier to pick out friend from foe, makes it so simple to tell the difference between Summer Court soldiers and Hybern soldiers. Not that Illyrians are hard to spot in a crowd, but their dark armor is very similar to Hyberns, and at this point, all I care about is quickly sorting friend from foe and choking the life out of the latter, or gutting them with blades of steel, or skewering them with spears of solid wind, or blowing up their lungs from inside. Convenience decides.</p>
<p>I’ve long since my arrival gone from clean to gory, my white hair tainted with blood and my feathers all the same. I don’t care. I don’t care how it glues my feathers together, it doesn’t affect my flight yet, so I don’t care.</p>
<p>All I care about is ending these miserable males’ lives, and I do so swiftly, even though a part of me wishes their deaths to be long and painful.</p>
<p>There are lives at stake, I cannot give in to revenge and let more die than necessary. I will be better. More than just a killer.</p>
<p>I achieve this goal by systematically killing the soldiers in the paths of the civilians frantically searching for safety, in houses or alleys or literary anywhere other than the blood-soaked streets, where the valleys between the cobblestone runs red like rivers between mountains.</p>
<p>When I can’t reach in time I put up barriers of solid air to buy time, restrain the soldiers with binds of golden air while I choke them, all while taking care of those closer to me with the gleaming edges of my dual blades.</p>
<p>They do not fail me. Not my magic or my blades.</p>
<p>But my self preservation does, for with my senses so honed in on keeping the civilians safe—lesser faerie or High Fae—I miss an archer perched on a rooftop, and by the time I notice the arrow, it’s too late to block or dodge.</p>
<p>It digs into my shoulder, just under my right clavicle, would have done worse damage had I not manage to alter it’s path just a little. It also doesn’t lodge itself deeply, but it hurts, and it forces me to take care of it rather than the people I came here to protect.</p>
<p>Spearing through the light, I illusion myself into nonexistence in one of the alleys, gripping the shaft of the arrow as I prepare to tug the shit out. Gritting my teeth, I pull, pull with all I have, and despite the pain burning through my body, I manage to get it lose.</p>
<p>I’m left panting, the worst of the pain slowly ebbing out, but my shoulder continues to pulse with pain. I assign a fraction of my magic to begin healing it, but my right arm is out of commission for now, so I sheathe my right blade and keep a steady grip of my left, glad to be proficient with both.</p>
<p><span>And then I get back out there, cutting down the archer on the roof with a blade of solid air across his throat, and in his struggle to keep his lifeblood within him</span>—<span>hands clutching his throat—he falls off the roof and breaks his neck. </span></p>
<p>I feel no remorse, only twisted satisfaction.</p>
<p>Bringer of death. The light at the end of the tunnel. I wear those titles proudly here as I continue to cut through Hybern’s forces like stalks of wheat, even with one less blade.</p>
<p>Done right, it does not make me a monster. Done for the right reasons, it does not damn me.</p>
<p>After killing a group of males flocking before a house—trying to push their way through the apparent barricade behind the door—I peak inside to see what they were trying to get to. Even the numbness of battle cannot stop my stomach from dropping as I find a dozen faerie children cowering within, stacks of jumbled furniture holding the door closed.</p>
<p>I slip inside, bend into the dim house and sheathe my blade, do my best to show no sign of hostility as I manifest in the room with them.</p>
<p>They all look at me with wide, terrified eyes, reddened by tears, splattered with blood. Some are injured, but none seem deathly so. A young male with a heavily bleeding wound in his leg looks to be the worst of it, and I quickly fashion an illusion to turn the house into nothing but an extension of one of the other—doorless—and head for the young boy.</p>
<p>Crouching down before him—carefully placing my hand over the wound—I will my golden wind to adapt to heal instead, to mend.</p>
<p>“No one leaves this building, makes so much as a sound if it can be helped” I begin softly. “I have warded the house, but they can still hear you if you’re loud” Their answers are sniffles, better than outright wailing. But it feels like the silence of trauma, not compliance.</p>
<p>The blue-skinned faerie youngster with eyes the color of a sparkling beach watches me with tired yet awestruck eyes as I carefully mend his flesh. He looks a little older than the rest, approaching the early stages of maturity.</p>
<p>“There are more of us” He breathes. “Hiding across the city. I couldn’t get them all” Something warm flutters in my chest, but is quelled by the numbness I’ve forced into myself.</p>
<p>Faerie youngsters often stick close, at least to my knowledge. They’re so rare—so few and far between—that their friend groups are tight-knitted and span across entire cities or villages. I was never a part of this tight-knitted society of mischievous children, but I saw them, watched them without begin there, because I hadn’t yet figured out how to stay present.</p>
<p>“If I find them, I will bring them here. Hide them. Worry not” they young male nods slowly. “Keep everyone here quiet for me, no matter the commotion outside” He nods again. “When this is over, I will bring you to real safety” I finish my work and stand, the boy carefully testing his leg. It still hurts, but doesn’t bleed.</p>
<p>I help him to his feet, hand him a pair of daggers, figuring Mor won’t mind if they’re placed in deserving hands.</p>
<p>“Use them wisely” I tell him before I vanish, return to the brutal reality outside, blade already gutting soldiers before I’ve truly returned to the physical.</p>
<p>I search every house I pass, cast a quick look into each while still staying present in the fighting, choking and gutting and exploding lungs if choking takes to long. Where I go, bodies trail me, lifeless or slowly slipping as they choke on their own blood or bleed out surrounded by their own guts.</p>
<p>More Illyrians have joined the task of defending the city itself, their siphons flaring with color as they kill with both magic and steel.</p>
<p>I don’t pay them any mind as I kill my way through the street with swift efficiency, countering the Illyrians slow brutality, their strength found in sheer killing power rather than swiftness and agility.</p>
<p>I eventually find a young girl, hiding under a wagon. After killing those closest to her—clearing the space—I cast an illusion to mask us both as I crouch down before her and try to coax her into coming out, promising to bring her to safety.</p>
<p>The child ignores how bloody I am and takes my hand, doesn’t resist as I scoop her up into my arms—even though my shoulder protests—only wrapping her spindly arms around my neck in a tentative embrace, her legs curling around my waist.</p>
<p>Her small butterfly wings flap with hints of distress as I move us through the chaos—my wounded arm coiled tightly around her, and my other wielding my blade—moving back towards the house I left the other children in, but she remains silent and motionless aside from that.</p>
<p>When the chaos grows too thick, I let my wings carry me into the sky and soar over it—shooting spears of solid air into the enemy soldiers I pass if I can—but when winged foes thicken the airspace as well, I’m forced back to the ground—forced back to running—not confident I could evade them with the child in my arms.</p>
<p>A heartbeat grows louder in my head as I run down a path lined in blood and gore, steady and alive, but quickened by the rush of battle. My head whips in it’s direction as I reach a fork in the road, and there he is, slaughtering his way through a hoard, cobalt siphons ablaze, shadows restraining his enemies as he guts them, wings slapping back any who come too close.</p>
<p>The sight of razor edged blades swiping at him—at my mate—snaps something in me. Golden air erupts from me in a bust of panic and rage, spearing for the lungs of those Hybern soldier scum, filling them until they burst, felling the soldiers one by one as they either succumb to the pain or begin to suffocate as their lungs refuse to breathe, slowly filling up with blood instead.</p>
<p>In the mess it leaves behind, only Azriel remains standing, sword clutched tightly in his bloody hands, his eyes wide as he takes in the fallen males around him, mouths agape as they struggle for a breath that will never grace them again.</p>
<p>Then his eyes snap to me—stood amongst the death, clutching the faerie youngster—and I stumble back, gulp, but find my throat dry like sand.</p>
<p>Spreading my wings, I return to my task before his piercing eyes can affect me any further—the bond convince me to stay at his side and make sure he remains protected—and as I finally bend myself into the building I left the children in, I set the young girl down on the hardwood floor.</p>
<p>She’s crying, but she’s doing so silently, as if her voice has left her.</p>
<p>I want to wipe her tears away, but my hands are bloody, bound to make a mess. A faerie who seems to know her pulls her into a hug and does it for me, and I straighten, look to the older faerie youngster and nod before shifting back out into the bloodbath.</p>
<p>As I suffer scrapes and minor cuts—all due to the wound in my shoulder slowing me down—I avoid Azriel’s heartbeat at all cost. I focus on my task of finding the children in need instead, and execute the task with precise efficiency every time I find one.</p>
<p>To my surprise—as I exit the house yet after another successful rescue—I find Azriel stood before the door, a young faerie boy in his arms.</p>
<p>He must have just appeared though, as his heartbeat slams into me like a mace, loud and consuming, thundering in his chest, and now my head.</p>
<p>Wordlessly, he hands him over, and I’ve hardly gathered him in my arms before he’s vanished again, leaving me to put the boy in the fragile safety I’ve managed to craft for them.</p>
<p>It goes on and on, and I swear I see Mor and Feyre at some point, helping to clear the city as well. But suddenly, it just ends. The soldiers who can winnow retreat. Those who can fly try to, only to be jerked back by my ever dwindling reserve of magic and speared by the remnants I manage to scrape up, but I miss many.</p>
<p>I decide to leave the stragglers to the bloodthirsty Illyrians around me, stumbling my way back to the house of youngsters, wading my way through the sea of death, my magic like a faded, gentle breeze in my blood, hardly able to keep healing me, my shoulder still gushing blood—despite my efforts to close it.</p>
<p>I keep moving thanks to adrenaline, but exhaustion is slowly seeping into my bones, leaving me stumbling through the death and decay, a good section of which was caused by me.</p>
<p>I haven’t recovered as much as I would like to believe, my body is not as it were five hundred years ago, but it did what it had to do, it protected the innocent, it—</p>
<p>My foot catches on a lifeless leg, and I lose my balance, fall to my knees with a squishy splat, my hands sinking into the gore as I use them for leverage, to keep from completely falling. They’re shaking, trembling like the legs of a newborn fawn, like this wasn’t what I was raised to do, like I haven't wielded blades since I was a mere younling. My wings—bloody and tainted—drape down my sides like walls, and for a time, I only breathe, well aware how vulnerable I am like this.</p>
<p>Gritting my teeth, I push myself back onto my knees, manage to stay upright as I gaze out across this sea of decay.</p>
<p>I suck in a deep breath, ignore the stinging scent of blood and shit and death as I try to fill my lungs with air, supply my tired body with oxygen.</p>
<p>The children. I have to get to the children.</p>
<p>Unable to bring myself to stand, I bend into the light instead, bend into their house and sloppily land on my knees atop the hardwood floor, startling some as I pant, sinking back to sit atop my own legs.</p>
<p>“It’s over” I breathe. “I… I can’t fly you to safety… I—” Azriel’s heartbeat enters the mix, and I turn to look, finding him in the doorway, what looks like a Summer Court soldier beside him, his deeply tanned face twisted in horror as he beholds the room of cowering young.</p>
<p>“They, did you—” He looks to Azriel, but he shakes his head and motions at me, and I meet the High Fae male’s blue gaze.</p>
<p>“I gathered as many as I could…” I hate how tired I sound, hate how weak I appear, but I can’t will my legs to move, can’t will my wings to fold in against my back. The male stumbles for words</p>
<p>“I—I’ll take care of things from here” He promises, stepping deeper into the room. “You are safe now, don’t worry” He addresses the children, and I watch the eldest boy approach me, the twin daggers in his hands.</p>
<p>He presents them to me, intent on returning them, but I close his hands around the hilts again.</p>
<p>“They’re yours” I’m sure Mor won’t mind. “For gathering them all in the first place” I hold his hands, and he doesn’t balk at the sticky feel of blood coating me. “Use them for good” He nods, once, faintly, then steps out of my grip.</p>
<p>Through some miracle, I find the strength to stand then, my legs wobbly beneath me, but holding. My eyes drift to Azriel, and I’m left staring as he offers his bloody hand, his body swirling with shadows, some reaching out to me like threads from his fingertips.</p>
<p>I take it, relishing the cool, comforting feel of his shadows as they consume us both.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I loved writing this chapter. I don't know what that says about me as a person.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Aftermath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Azriel brings me to the hills overlooking the city, where Illyrians are working to set up camp for the coming night—to house their wounded until they’re healed enough to be winnowed back home. A healer notices me and deems me one of said wounded, drags me away to be tended to, and while I can't completely refuse her aid as I want to, I only let her clean the wound and mend the worst of it. Once I tear myself from her care, she forces a cloth into my hands and instructs to keep it pushed against the entry wound, since I so adamantly refused to undress and be bandaged. </p>
<p>It's pathetic—how weak I am—so at odds with the me I remember. I can't even find the strength to help raise the camp, instead finding myself seated on a patch of rocky earth and holding that cloth against my shoulder as instructed, watching the still smoldering city bellow as I wondering whether I could have done more, if I could have worked harder and had more in me now as a result of it, had the strength to help set up the tents, perhaps even help heal the wounded.</p>
<p>But the golden light in me has faded, leaving only pure daylight soaked into my bloodstream, and it holds no healing properties whatsoever.</p>
<p>“Estelle” It startles me, to hear someone address me with that name—to hear <em>him</em> address me with that name—but also because I didn’t hear him approach, didn’t notice his heart. So tired and distant I didn’t notice. “Come” I turn to look at him, but find him already turned away from me, heading somewhere, and I shakily stand up to follow, guided by the beckoning whispers of the shadows he leaves behind—almost tugging me along—even though exhaustion keeps it’s claws dug deep into my bones.</p>
<p>He brings me to a tent—a makeshift office—and motions with a lose hand at the spot draped with furs on the ground. I take the hint and practically fall onto them, bringing my knees up to my chest as I lean back against one of the poles of the tent, wings slumped at my sides.</p>
<p>“Tell me how Hybern’s moving” The order is clear, cold. “If you can” He adds after a moment, his voice a little softer.</p>
<p>I’m not sure I nod before I drift, but I drift, search the waters for Hybern’s ships, doing my best to keep one foot in myself while I do, to be able to tell him what I find when I find it.</p>
<p>Doing this half thing is difficult to do when rested, and nearly impossible to do when drained, but I manage to tell him that I find Hybern’s ships heading back towards their island. If my words are decipherable or a slurred mess is beyond me, and Azriel’s problem.</p>
<p>He says I can stop though, so I do, stay leaned back against the tent-pole while people enter his tent and disappear as swiftly as they came. His living spies, not mere shadows, but faeries who serve him.</p>
<p>One makes the mistake of asking who I am—stepping too close to me—and is swiftly and coldly dismissed.</p>
<p>I’m forgetting to push the cloth against my wound, I realize, and meekly lift my left arm up to keep doing it again, resting my forearm across my knees to give my tired arm support.</p>
<p>I let pure Adrenaline fuel me in the end, leaving me empty once it faded. A rookie mistake.</p>
<p>I pry an eye open as I hear Azriel stand from his desk, holding something in his hand, something he offers to me as he crouches down to my level. A skin of water. Noticing how parched I am, I shakily reach out for it, downing almost half in one swoop before my stomach protests and I hinge myself, fearing the thought of it coming right back up. He seems to see the risk as well and takes it from me, though lingers before me, still clad in his dark armor, still stained with blood and gore, reeking of it.</p>
<p>“I feel pathetic” I don’t know why I say it, the words just slip from my lips. He shakes his head faintly.</p>
<p>“You’re still recovering, no one expects you to be at your strongest physically”</p>
<p>“I do” I rasp back at him. “I always do” His stoic face grows a little grim, his hazel eyes dulling further.</p>
<p>“Sleep” He orders, rising to his full height again. My eyes drift down to the furs, soft and inviting beneath me.</p>
<p>Without another word, I sink down atop them, a wing of mine working as a blanket as I let my body rest. But my mind doesn’t find sleep. Not amongst the roars of agony escaping from the healing tents, or the sound of battle reverberating in my head.</p>
<p><span>Only his heart</span>—<span>steadily beating amongst the chaos—brings some semblance of calm, enough so to leave me </span><span>mindlessly drifting across the camp</span><span>, but not quite sleeping, </span><span>not quite daring, lest I might completely leave my body, </span><span>and not just this half thing</span><span>.</span></p>
<p><span> My eyes flutter open as something cool and gentle brushes up along my arm—even through the leathers—and my vision </span><span>fully</span> <span>returns and </span><span>focuses to find a shadow slithering up my forearm, swirling between </span><span>the fingers of my outstretched palm</span><span>.</span></p>
<p>
  <span> It’s been a while since it did this, I realize, and despite the heaviness weighing on me, I wiggle my fingers in silent greeting, but can’t muster any golden wind to play with it. It seems content with that, settles along my arm instead like a soothing compan</span>
  <span>ion</span>
  <span>, and I close my eyes to resume my </span>
  <span>sleepless drifting</span>
  <span>, </span>
  <span>the shadow’s presence helping me stay grounded somehow, focused on what’s here</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~</span>
  <span>O</span>
  <span>~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of a chair moving tugs me back from my state of near sleep but not quite, and I open my eyes to find near pitch blackness—say for a dim faelight illuminating the space—Azriel moving across the space towards another patch of furs on the opposite side of the tent from me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> I </span>
  <span>w</span>
  <span>atch him stiffly lay down on his side, wings tucked in tightly against his back, his front facing my way, back against the tent wall. He looks exhausted, drained, but as the seconds drag to minutes—half an hour even—I can hear that he’s not finding sleep. His breathing is too frequent, his heart beating too fast, his body too tense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fact that he’s put me in </span>
  <span>
    <em>his</em>
  </span>
  <span> tent tonight brushes my mind in a soft caress, the though making the bond hum contently, but myself stiffen with uncertainty.</span>
</p>
<p>As if he feels it, Azriel’s eyes open, dull and lifeless in the dim light, not sparkling as they once did under the starlight of Velaris. Tired, exhausted, both mentally and physically, I assume.</p>
<p>War does that, even to the most seasoned warrior, but things have been weighing on Azriel’s mind for a while, especially since the day they went to the Court of Nightmares. He might have hid it and hid it well, but it hasn’t left him.</p>
<p>
  <span>I wonder if he can tell that my eyes are open, or if the dark irises I possess blends the fact into the darkness between us. He keeps looking at me though.</span>
</p>
<p>The night beyond is still filled with the sound of agony—still full of death—but my ears seem to have grown desensitized, as I hardly even notice it anymore, care.</p>
<p>There’s just him, laying on the other end of the tent. So close, yet so far.</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened to your shoulder” He eventually casts the question across the space between us, well aware I’m awake as well, it seems.</span>
</p>
<p>“An arrow” I rasp out through chapped lips and a hoarse throat. The bond seems to go taut, tense. “It takes more than an arrow to the shoulder to kill me” I continue, but the tension doesn’t ease.</p>
<p>“It could have punctured a lung” I snort softly, humorlessly.</p>
<p>“It would have been karma” Azriel’s lips thin to a line.</p>
<p>“Did you pull it out yourself”</p>
<p>“Who else would have done it. A kind bystander?” Harsh, perhaps, but I’m still numb, still not quite out of that cold pit I buried myself in when this began. “You know I’ve suffered worse”</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>You haven’t been specific” True.</span>
</p>
<p>“They broke most the bones in my right arm once. The important ones” I push out my throat, and Azriel’s silence is heavy.</p>
<p>“Brannagh and—”</p>
<p>“No” I cut him off. “My overseer in the army, when I was still a recruit” Azriel doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t seem to even breathe. “I didn’t learn to use my left arm quick enough, so they took my right away until I’d mastered it” I look down at my left hand, limply reaching out before me. “I’m glad for it now, it’s saved me plenty, but it hurt” An understatement.</p>
<p>“How old were you” His tone is cold, but if he didn’t want to know, he wouldn’t have asked.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Twelve, maybe thirteen” </span>
  <span>Silence follows. “Drakon’s forbidden that now, the young recruits have their arms tied behind their back instead” I’ll give that to the male, he’s been sifting out the brutality over the years, but he’s still not someone I appraise or worship as some Seraphim do.</span>
</p>
<p>“Were wings ever clipped” Like the Illyrians and their females. I shudder at the thought.</p>
<p>“No, not like in Illyria. But it happened, mainly to traitors. Sentenced to never fly again” I gulp, the lump in my throat remains. “They plucked their feathers, burnt them before their eyes, then clipped their wings” Azriel’s wings seem to tuck in tighter behind him. “Most killed themselves within the week” I feel bile rise up my throat. “I was tasked with monitoring them, so we’d know when to clean up the bodies” Azriel’s shadows grow deeper, and the one now resting around my left wrist does as well.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Why you”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Convenience” I state calmly. “They wouldn’t do it if they knew someone was watching, so I was tasked with the job. To execute them was too brutal, apparently. Bringing them to suicide was less of a stain on their image, though they still wanted them to die, one way or another. But not litter the beautiful land, not that” I’m well aware slivers of distaste are showing past the numbness. I don't care if it does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Who ordered this”</span>
</p>
<p>“Drakon, his father, I don’t know, it just always was like that” Silence drags on after that.</p>
<p>“The Misted Isles gave nothing” I sigh.</p>
<p>
  <span> “It was worth a shot” He hums. “</span>
  <span>I hope you took my advice” </span>
</p>
<p>“No one drowned on air”</p>
<p>“Good, wouldn’t want that on my conscience” I close my eyes with a sigh.</p>
<p>“You should sleep” He mumbles, and I keep my eyes closed as I answer.</p>
<p>“I can’t, I’m not… I’m still out there” Still fighting, still living in the bloodshed. And the light—even with the world beyond drenched in pitch—leaves my restless mind open to wander rather than stay where it should. “Could you turn out the light…” I ask faintly, and I hear Azriel shift, his armor pieces moveing against one another.</p>
<p>“Why” I assume he’s sat up.</p>
<p>
  <span> “It… My mind </span>
  <span>tends to </span>
  <span>wanders when I’m </span>
  <span>like this</span>
  <span>, if there’s light. I get lost”</span>
  <span> I hear him stand, hear him head to the faelight and turn it off, my mind immediately growing more at ease as pitch encases us both.</span>
</p>
<p>“I thought you’d want to avoid darkness” He says, settling back down on his furs.</p>
<p>
  <span> “I told you it became my escape. It always has been” He doesn’t speak after that, and neither do I. Because finally, sleep manages to drag me under—however uneas</span>
  <span>ily it holds me in it's arms.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Floodgates</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next morning, Azriel brings me to Rhys, Feyre and Mor to have them winnow me back to Velaris while he and Cassian take care of the </span>
  <span>a</span>
  <span>rmy. I don’t care for Feyre’s curious look as he practically dumps me with them before </span>
  <span>leaving</span>
  <span> to help wrap up camp. I don’t acknowledge Mor’s prodding gaze either, as if she’s searching my silence for some </span>
  <span>
    <em>truth</em>
  </span>
  <span> that she won’t find.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of them notice the </span>
  <span>wound in my shoulder</span>
  <span>, healed over enough to blend in with the stench of blood and gore in the camp. </span>
  <span>My Seraphim blood did it’s job during the night, nearly finishing the work the healer already did on it, but not quite just yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We winnow, and find Nesta waiting for us in the foyer of the town house. Elain is nowhere to be seen.</span>
</p>
<p>Amren comes in as well, and the questioning begins.</p>
<p>I don’t care for the bickering between Mor and Nesta—find it pointless—and in desperate need of a bath as I am, I slip into the light of early dawn and spear up towards the House, the guest room having become my more permanent dwelling with the arrival of the sisters in the town house, the space feeling a little too cramped now.</p>
<p>Arriving in the dim room of mine, I light the faelights and stride for the fresher, drawing myself a bath scented with lavender and this cedar soap I’ve grown to like for some reason, though not entirely sure why. It just feels comforting to soak in, and after pealing off my grimy leathers and blades, I sink into the steaming waters, so hot it nearly scalds in an attempt to burn away the feel of death from my skin.</p>
<p>I carefully undo my braid, my hair a mix of pink and deeper reds now rather than white—my wings much the same—and once I’ve freed my hair, I carefully work to clean it all out. It slowly stains the tub red, and I’m forced to refill it twice before I manage to regain the white.</p>
<p>
  <span>Involuntarily, my brain mulls over my stay in Azriel’s tent last night, reading too deep into it, but unable to stop myself.</span>
</p>
<p>It makes sense. Even if he doesn’t acknowledge it, the bond is still there, he still feels the instincts that come with it. Knowing I’m injured would make it hard to keep me out of sight, so he made sure I stayed where he could see me. It doesn’t mean anything, just that the bond bothers him sometimes. It doesn’t mean he actually cares about me, however much I’d like to believe he does.</p>
<p>I care, I always have, bond or not. But Amren is right, we’re not ready, neither of us are, not for the true weight of the bond, that complete yielding of yourself to the other. And that’s fine. Hopefully time will change that. Hopefully, when this war is over, we can work to change that.</p>
<p>For now, I’ll be a friend, I’ll be as open as I can stomach and encourage him to be the same, but not push about it, never that. I’ll pretend there’s no bond at all until we’re ready, to the best of my abilities.</p>
<p>My outburst yesterday was a slip of that fragile control, but I can rule it off as I wishing to protect a friend, as I’m sure I would have done the same was the bond not there to send me into a panic. I would have handled it better—been more composed—but I would have done the same thing, for anyone in the Circle.</p>
<p>I should have done the same for Jaxon.</p>
<p>I shouldn’t have hesitated when I realized what was happening. I should have speared right into that field and burst the lungs of everyone who wished to do him harm.</p>
<p>But I hesitated, feared the consequences of leaving my post, and Jaxon—along with many others—died.</p>
<p>I let the one Fae who saw me for me die because I was scared to lose my rank in Drakon’s army. Young and foolish. So, so foolish.</p>
<p>His family blamed me. His lover blamed me. And they were right to do so.</p>
<p>They had every right to hate me.</p>
<p>What they never realized was that I hated myself just as much. I never let anyone know that.</p>
<p>My eyes begin to sting, and this time, I can’t hold back the tears.</p>
<p>With the numbness of war withdrawing to make way for emotions again, they surge and overwhelm me. Long repressed hurt and shelved pains of the present mix and consume me, until my soul is stripped so raw I can’t breathe, can’t function beyond the choked sobs that tear from my lips.</p>
<p>Wrapping my arms around my knees—cocooning myself with my wings—I sit in that tub and cry until I don’t even know why I’m crying anymore—the water gone cold—but I can’t stop, can’t close the floodgates now that they’ve opened.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay, so I forced my way into my sister's home yesterday and took copious mounts of notes, so I won't be running out of chapters for a while yet granted I keep writing at the pace I currently do. I might not be able to though, with school resuming next week, but I'll do my best to keep you supplied.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Bottled up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I stay cooped up in the House for the rest of the day, only l</span>
  <span>e</span>
  <span>aving to find myself something to eat when it grows necessary, and once darkness falls I find restless drops of sleep now and again, haunted by faces from my past and faces of the present.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Amren doesn’t ask why I look like a wreck the next morning, my hair unbound because I couldn’t bother to braid it. She just keeps glaring at that talking book of hers while I nibble on the sandwich Nuala gave me this morning, and I brought with me here.</span>
</p>
<p>She didn’t ask why I showed up at her doorstep either, just let me in and left me to exist in the silence with her, only broken by the Book’s taunting words.</p>
<p><span><em>So close, yet so far.</em></span> <span><em>Lost, </em></span><span><em>but almost found.</em></span><span> It isn’t really addressing anyone, but from how Amren frowns, I figure it’s talking about the spell she’s trying to find.</span></p>
<p>“Tell me about Adriata” She eventually decides to break the silence, slamming the book shut.</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>Blood. Stains on your soul.</em>
  </span>
  <span> The Book whispers, and Amren tosses it to her bed instead, the distance granting some reprieve from it’s voice.</span>
</p>
<p>“It was chaos” I begin, my tongue heavy and leaden, but cooperative. “I stuck to the city and defended the citizens” Amren nods.</p>
<p>“You were injured” She states, perhaps able to scent the lingering scab of blood covering the entry-wound. I roll my right shoulder carefully. It aches, but it’s alright.</p>
<p>
  <span> “A lucky shot” A dark brow of her</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> raises. “An arrow, I managed” </span>
  <span>Her eyes linger on my shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>“It could have killed you” She points out.</p>
<p>“Azriel said something similar” Her eyes drift to mine. “He deigned to ask eventually”</p>
<p>“Eventually” She demands I continue.</p>
<p>
  <span> “After he’d </span>
  <span>brought me out of the city, to the camp they were setting up </span>
  <span>in the hills</span>
  <span>. I couldn’t help, I was… tired, very tired” She nods slowly. “Then he just… Told me to come with him, and I followed. I sat down on some fur pelt in his tent and helped him figure out where Hybern was going, then it’s all… hazy” </span>
</p>
<p>“He kept you in his tent” I nod faintly.</p>
<p>“He gave me water at some point, ordered me to sleep, but I couldn’t, and neither could he. So we talked” Amren leans back in her seat on the rug.</p>
<p>Why we don’t sit in the armchairs, I don’t know, but this just feels normal somehow, sitting on the floor with her.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>You have to give him some praise. He’s very restrained” I tilt my head, brows furrowed. “Most males—fully mated or not—go ballistic when their mate is hurt. That he didn’t shows he’s leashed. But that’s never been the issue with Azriel” My frown deepens. “Azriel portrays the </span>
  <span>calm and collected</span>
  <span> male well, but there’s a limit to how much he can repress to achieve it. Eventually, he snaps” I straighten in my seat, recognizing myself too well. “No matter what makes him tip over, all he has repressed goes into his fury. I think that scares him right now”</span>
</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>
  <span> “He’s repressing the instincts of the bond, the aggression and impulses. Releasing his pent up emotion</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> slowly isn’t something he’s good at, so when he snaps, it all spills over at once. I think the prospect of snapping around you frightens him, that he won’t have control” </span>
  <span>I swallow down the lump in my throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Would he hurt me? If he did?”</span>
</p>
<p><span> “Depends how it manifests. If he decides to be angry at the bond, maybe. If he can’t resist the bond’s call, he might do </span><span><em>other</em></span><span> things to you” My cheeks heat. “Either way, I doubt it’ll be pleasant” I look to the side, doing all I can to <em>not</em> imagine </span><span>the</span> <span><em>other</em></span> <span><em>things</em></span><span> she’s referring to. “In general, Azriel’s a good male, a buffoon, but good. He knows the risk and stays away to shield you from it. </span><span>H</span><span>e by no means hates you” I nod slowly. “Which is also why I suggest you stay here during the meeting with the High Lords. If Azriel’</span><span>s</span> <span>to</span><span> find reason to snap—be irked enough to slip—it will be there. Old wounds will itch, you see” I nod.</span></p>
<p>
  <span> “I didn’t plan on going” </span>
  <span>I admit. “My kind’s supposed to be dead”</span>
</p>
<p>“Yet you fought for Adriata”</p>
<p>“They’d hardly take note whether I’m Seraphim or Peregryn in that chaos” Amren seems to see my point. “In future battles, I might mask myself as something else, perhaps an Illyrian”</p>
<p>“What for”</p>
<p>“I may not care much for my old home, but I don’t want to cause it more trouble than being caught by Hybern already has” Amren nods, and I take the chance to try a new form already, as she might be able to give an opinion.</p>
<p>Crafting an image without a base to go off of is much harder than copying others.</p>
<p>So I shift the light and turn my wings to membranous Illyrian ones, change my hair to an inky black, and my skin to a golden brown. Amren watches on with intrigue in her eyes.</p>
<p>“How do I look?”</p>
<p><span> “Too unclipped to be an Illyrian female” I cringe. “And no Illyrian male in</span> <span>the </span><span>legion</span><span> would accept fighting alongside you” I change my approach, turn myself male </span><span>in appearance</span><span> rather than female, and Amren’s eyes twinkle, lips tug</span><span>ging</span><span> into a smirk. “That’s more like it” I grin, make sure it shows past the illusion.</span></p>
<p>“As long as I don’t talk, they won’t suspect a thing” Because my voice is very much my own.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Or you illusion your wings away and become </span>
  <span>High</span>
  <span> Fae, fight on foot” I consider.</span>
</p>
<p>“Also an option, we’ll see what works best when the time comes” Amren nods, and I return to normal.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Traitorous Mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Slender sun-kissed fingers brushing over a dark membranous wing. A large scarred hand palming a fistful of moon-white hair. Nails scraping against skin, clawing at a powerful back. A body pinned beneath a wonderful weight. The cool caresses of murmuring shadows. The gentle brush of golden wind against golden skin.</p>
<p>Mouths—ravenous and starved—clashing and devouring. Bodies—hot and heaving—desperately sating the hunger. A heart—thundering in my head—beating in sync with my own.</p>
<p>His name—again and again—equal parts pleading and praising.</p>
<p>My name—snapping me back to reality—eyes staring blindly into the dark of night.</p>
<p>Oh gods.</p>
<p>I lift a hand up to cover my panting mouth, my burning cheeks.</p>
<p>Oh my <em>gods.</em></p>
<p>I push the sheets off of me—too hot, too suffocating—sit up, hands cradling my head, fingers clawing at my scalp.</p>
<p>The images won’t leave—despite the darkness—refuse to fade, replaying in my head again and again as the fire burns hotter beneath my skin, coiling in my core. His heart won’t fade either, thumping in my ears no matter how I try to cover them, just as the images don’t leave no matter how tightly I shut my eyes.</p>
<p>Mother help me.</p>
<p>I lean my head against my knees, focus on breathing, on quelling the fire roaring in my veins, the prospect of him feeling me through the bond instilling a split reaction.</p>
<p>Dread and desire.</p>
<p>Please don’t sense me. Please come sate me. The two sides clashing as I fight the traitorous workings of my own body.</p>
<p>Never. Never have I seen Azriel like this. He’s always been attractive, yes, but not this.</p>
<p>Even with the bond realized, I’ve never felt this <em>need</em>. This <em>hunger</em>.</p>
<p>Is this how males feel? This longing? This desire? Has Azriel been feeling this without me even knowing?</p>
<p>I’ve never scented it, not once, not like how my own arousal now stains the air. But Amren spoke of restraint, repressing. Is this what he’s repressing? Is this what’s turning him into a dam ready to burst?</p>
<p>How does he even repress it to begin with?</p>
<p>I throw myself back against the mattress, arms splays as wide as my wings, my body bare to the darkness as my chest continues to heave, body continues to burn, heart continues to race.</p>
<p>Closing my eyes, I find the bond between us, find the string of pale moonlight quivering on my end—flickering—but calming before it reaches his side, not yet relaying the message.</p>
<p>At least I hope so.</p>
<p>Flinging my eyes open again, I shoot to my feet and stumble through the darkness, parting the heavy curtains as I fumble to get the smaller section of the window open, to let in the cooler night air, desperate to escape this, to stop this before it ruins everything I’ve worked to repair. I don’t care that I’m naked as the day I was born, my wings serving as my only cover as I wrap them around myself.</p>
<p>Managing to get the little window open, I embrace the cold air beyond, taking a long, deep, refreshing breath, glad to find just a smidgen of ease. Until a soft breeze of cool air brushes against my sensitive skin just like the shadows of my dreams, and I suck in a soft gasp before slamming the window shut again, locking it, and stumbling back onto bed, my legs dangling off the side as I lay down.</p>
<p>Unfurling my wings, I reach my hands up to my face, desperately trying to wipe the sights out of my brain, even though I know it won’t help.</p>
<p><em>Azriel. Azriel. Azriel</em>. I curse under my breath, my blood surging, body tensing, legs clenching.</p>
<p>I yelp as living tendrils of shadow brush along my feet, cool and gentle, just like the ones I felt snaking all across my body. Their whispers feel like a chanting, a continuous string of coaxing as they coil around my ankles, brush up my calves.</p>
<p>My mind’s racing, but I can’t move to shake them off, don’t <em>want</em> to shake them off.</p>
<p>I’m powerless as they reach my thighs, startled when a pair wrap around my wrists and guide them away from my face, leaving me wide-eyed and panting as I stare into the now moonlit room I lay in.</p>
<p>He can’t be doing this, this <em>can’t</em> be him commanding them.</p>
<p>I don’t dare feel down the bond to find out, scared it’ll give myself away if I haven’t already been snitched on.</p>
<p>It's inevitable though, the shadows will report back to their master once they’ve done whatever they’ve come to do to me, but I can live with that, I will have to live with that.</p>
<p>A brush just a little too high up my inner thigh has my body jerking, and the shadows retreat just a fraction.</p>
<p>They’re not mindlessly set on a purpose, then. I can stop this should I wish. I—I should stop this, before I dig myself a grave.</p>
<p>But will pushing them away make then whisper of rejection in his ear? Will it dig me another kind of grave?</p>
<p>The shadows cautiously resume their ascent, and I make my choice.</p>
<p>“Stop…” I breathe, embarrassingly breathless. “I can’t do this…” They stop, completely freeze all motion. “I’m sorry” I speak so once the shadows whisper of my refusal, they’ll hopefully relay my words as well, grant him some sort of explanation.</p>
<p>Murmuring softly—as if apologizing—the shadows retreat back into the darkness, leaving me breathless and unbearably lonely in their wake, still set aflame, but sure I made the right call here.</p>
<p>I’m not ready, and neither is he.</p>
<p>I don’t know if the shadows that trail Azriel are an extension of him, or separate in nature—in conscience. But if they are extensions of his conscience—split fractions of a more primitive part of him that take the shape of living darkness—their inclination to <em>help</em> me makes sense, just as their lifelong beckoning and urging does. The shadows realized the bond long before we did, and I think the part of me that always lives in the light knew too. Saw it, but not quite.</p>
<p>Despite the hour, I push out of bed and head into the fresher, drawing myself an ice cold bath to help clear my head—something I should have done immediately—soaking until my limbs feel numb and my teeth rattle my skull, no flicker of fire left to heat my blood.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I was nervous about posting this because I'm bad at this kind of thing. But I'm writing a story about mates, I can't avoid this. Hope it's decent enough.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Illusionist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cassian grins as I throw punch after punch into the mitts he holds steady before me, my muscles burning with the effort of keeping my stance perfect through each lunge, yet my body demanding I continue ‘til there’s nothing but whispers of energy left in me.</p>
<p>“So what’s got you so worked up today?” I throw him a particularly hard punch, but he not so much as stumbles.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t strong enough” I push past gritted teeth. It’s not quite the full truth, but it's a part of the reason.</p>
<p>“In Adriata?” I nod faintly and throw a left hook Cassian expertly catches. “You should have stuck with Mor and Feyre, going off alone like that isn’t ideal” I answer after three more punches.</p>
<p>“I’d been useless in a crowded palace” Cassian cocks his head to the side. “I was always more of an assassin, I work best alone”</p>
<p>“I heard you did a great deal on your own” It sounds like praise. “You managed to terrify some younger Illyrians through sheer blood-thirst, actually” I snort.</p>
<p>“I just blew up some lungs” He laughs, bright and booming.</p>
<p>“You did just as much gutting. And did a whole lot of saving, according to Azriel” I pause, brows lifting. “He told me about the younglings” I resume my punching.</p>
<p>“I did what was right” Cassian nods.</p>
<p>“Azriel also told me he found you with a hole in your shoulder” That hole has healed up so well I don’t even feel it anymore.</p>
<p>“A lucky shot” I brush it off.</p>
<p>“A lucky shot to your dominant arm” Cass points out.</p>
<p>“I’m fluent with both for that exact reason” I throw a particularly strong left upper cut to bring the point across. “So an injury doesn’t stop me from killing”</p>
<p>“Is that something all Seraphim follow?”</p>
<p>“Yes, but usually the left arm’s reserved for a shield. I always preferred two blades”</p>
<p>“Swift and deadly?”</p>
<p>“Swift and deadly. It compliments my skill-set more than a large clunky shield” Cassian nods. Then his face grows teasing, and I mentally prepare for whatever he’s about to say.</p>
<p>“How come I found you in Az’ tent?” I frown, unable to recall seeing him there. I must have been drifting by then.</p>
<p>“I helped him track Hybern, I guess he didn’t see a point in moving me” Cass continues to smirk. “Did I even have a tent of my own?” He grows thoughtful then.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. We would have made room though. Mor would have gladly taken you in if not”</p>
<p>“And what’s wrong with staying in Azriel’s, then? If I’d been made to share either way” That smirk broadens.</p>
<p>“Nothing’s <em>wrong</em> with it, just interesting” I raise an unamused brow. “He was holding back a snarl my entire stay” That <em>he</em> of all people noticed that, as dense as he makes himself out to be—and is at times—surprises me.</p>
<p>“You probably deserved it” He snorts.</p>
<p>“Or Az’ got the hots for you” I illusion myself punching one way and actually throw a punch straight into his gut while he’s trying to catch the fake. It’s much too satisfying to watch him fold over just a fraction. “Struck a nerve, did I?” He chokes out teasingly as I head for the sideline to down a couple gulps of water form my water-skin.</p>
<p>“I was drained, physically and magically, having you in there to possibly disturb my rest probably didn’t sit well with him” I say coldly, glancing back at where he now stands, rubbing a spot at his stomach. “I would have told you to fuck off too, had I been conscious enough to notice you” He chuckles.</p>
<p>“Whatever keeps your feather’s shiny” I roll my eyes.</p>
<p>“Overgrown bat” I mutter, taking one last chug before returning to the ring.</p>
<p>“You should come to Illyria some day, show the females some moves”</p>
<p>“And they’d trust an outsider like me?” The hopeful look in Cassian’s eyes dims a little.</p>
<p>“No, but they’d trust you more than they’d trust a High Fae. You’re more like us in appearance” I step back from him, prompting a frown to etch his brow. Then I illusion myself into an Illyrian female.</p>
<p>“Would this help or be considered trickery” Cassian’s gaping, hazel eyes taking me in from head to toe, not quite the same as Azriel’s hazel, Cass’ greener.</p>
<p>“Both, depending on whether they figure it out or not” He eventually says, settling his focus on my face. “Explaining why an Illyrian female knows how to fight and hasn’t gotten her wings clipped will be the biggest issue”</p>
<p>“Say I work for Rhys, have for centuries”</p>
<p>“Taken in by his mother…” He mumbles, considering. I haven’t dug into Rhys’ family history, but I know his blood-family passed in quite the tragedy, have gathered as much from the books I’ve read. “That could work, it would piss off the males, but it could work” I smile.</p>
<p>“I look convincing enough? I’ve never seen a female of your kind” Cassian resumes his scanning.</p>
<p>“Your wings should be a little smaller based on your size, and I’ve never met an Illyrin with eyes like yours” I quickly make the adjustments, shrinking my wings a fraction and turning my eyes into a bright hazel much like Cassian's. He laughs in what sounds like disbelief. “This is freaky”</p>
<p>“Want to see me as a male?” He laughs.</p>
<p>“No, I’m good thanks” His loss.</p>
<p>My muscles lock up as I sense Azriel on his way here, hear the steady thump of his heart grow louder. I turn toward the entrance before he emerges, catching the initial moment of stunned surprise as he freezes in the doorway, golden eyes trained on me.</p>
<p>“Did you know she could do this?” Cass questions, motioning at me, completely oblivious to my nervousness. Does he know about last night? Have the shadows told him yet?</p>
<p>Az subtly sniffs the air, then moves onto the floor with us, body veiled in a layer of shadow.</p>
<p>“I knew she could mimic, not make her own shapes” He answers coldly, his tone perfectly indifferent.</p>
<p>“Mimic?” He throws the question my way, and I decide to go against his word, shifting the illusion and turning myself into a replica of him. His brows raise to his hairline. “I am <em>not</em> okay with this”</p>
<p>“The only thing I can’t replicate is your voice” I swear Azriel’s eyes twinkle with amusement as Cassian continues to look thoroughly uncomfortable. “But I can try” I continue, deliberately trying to darken my voice, which turns Cassian’s discomfort into a loud booming laugh.</p>
<p>“Never do that again” I puff out my chest and flare my wings.</p>
<p>“But it’s so much fun” My throat strains to maintain the deep voice, and Cassian looks like he’s running the risk of laughing out his lungs.</p>
<p>“You sound like preteen Cassian” Azriel comments, watching this all unfold a few paces away, arms folded over his chest, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. Cassian whirls to face his brother.</p>
<p>“I did <em>not</em> sound like that” Azriel glances to the side, eyes twinkling with mischief, clearly not agreeing.</p>
<p>The sound of wings descending fills the air, and I turn to find Rhys arriving with Feyre, both of them clad in clothes suitable for practice.</p>
<p>“Why are there two of Cassian” Rhys drawls in what sounds like annoyance. “One’s more than enough” Cassian glares at his other brother as he sets down Feyre, her eyes sparkling with intrigue.</p>
<p>“Why <em>are</em> there two of you?” She pushes for a real answer more so than Rhys did.</p>
<p>“I’m having a bit of fun” She seems startled to hear my voice coming out of Cassian’s mouth at first, then bursts out laughing. Rhys chuckles at her side as well. That they can laugh at all with all that’s going on is a good thing, a very good thing.</p>
<p>“Stop wearing my skin, it’s weird” Cassian grumbles my way. I sigh and turn myself into Rhys instead.</p>
<p>“Better?”</p>
<p>“Much better” Rhys purrs with a grin.</p>
<p>“No! Seeing you as a male is weird, I don’t like it. Stop” I smile sweetly, then decide I’m done with this little game of mine and return to myself.</p>
<p>“You’re such a crybaby” I deadpan, and Cassian looks adamantly offended.</p>
<p>“Illyrian babies” Feyre cuts in, and I cast her an approving smile.</p>
<p><span>Then Azriel’s walking past me, towards Feyre, and I realize he’s here to take her out flying again. A part of me wants to join—observe—but another fears my mind might betray me again should I spend too long in his near vicinity, as merely looking at him now</span>—<span>clad in those tight flying leathers—reminds me of the sights I was both cursed and blessed with last night.</span></p>
<p>Once Feyre and Azriel leave, Rhys and Cass invite me to spar with them, and while I’m exhausted, I decide to agree, the urge to get stronger so fierce in my blood I hardly care how worn down I’ll be tonight. That it helps distract me is only an added bonus.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Departure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Finally, all the High Lords managed to agree on a spot to house the meeting, the very evening before the thing was set to take place. In the Dawn Court, as close to the neutral land in the middle of the Courts as they could get, and once it’s been set in stone, Rhys, Mor and Azriel gather around the dinner table to discuss every possible threat and trap and escape rout existing in that palace, based on previous knowledge.</p>
<p>I help for as long as I can by searching through the bright and lovely halls of the Dawn Court palace, open to my watchful eye—but the sun is already low on the sky once I leave, forcing me to retreat quickly with little information that they don’t already possess.</p>
<p>Feyre paces all thought the discussion, face etched with unease.</p>
<p>Amren fluctuates between snappy teacher and calm adviser from her seat with Nesta in the sitting room, the ancient being intently mulling over the contents of the Book, searching vigorously for the spell we’ll need to patch up the wall.</p>
<p>
  <span>She says it’ll only take her a few more days once Nesta leaves to her room, complaining of a headache. In a few days time, Nesta will be tasked with wielding the spell Amren is so desperately trying to crack, and with that said, she leaves the town house, intending to head home and read until her eyes bleed.</span>
</p>
<p>I don’t think she’s joking either.</p>
<p>Even though there aren’t any clear threats awaiting them—say verbal sparring—I find myself tossing and turning in bed that night, unable to shake my worry. A part of me desperately wishes to be there, but the rational part of me knows I can’t. Even so, it’s the former of those sides who holds sway all throughout the night, leaving me sleepless from dusk 'til dawn.</p>
<p>
  <span>The worry is still there once I’m stood in the town house, ready to bid them all goodbye, to stay in the city with Amren, Nesta and Elain.</span>
</p>
<p>They look regal, all of them.</p>
<p>Feyre clad in a dress so bright and gorgeous it’s as though it was sown from pure starlight. Mor in a gown of midnight blue, almost the same as her usual choice of clothing, yet somehow more proper. Then there’s Cassian and Azriel, dressed in their full Illyrian armor, siphons gleaming in the faelight.</p>
<p>
  <span> It’s an effort not to stare at the latter—</span>
  <span>mostly draped in shadow—</span>
  <span>to </span>
  <span>not </span>
  <span>scan every </span>
  <span>visible </span>
  <span>plane of his armored self, powerful and intimidating, yet undeniably alluring because of it. I don’t know what that says about my taste in males, but I don’t particularly care.</span>
</p>
<p>Feyre throwing a pointed glare at the stairs grants me a distraction, as I too note that a certain High Lord is fashionably late.</p>
<p>I wonder what’s taking him so long, but decide it’s not my place to find out.</p>
<p>“What?” Feyre’s voice enters the near silence, and I look to her instead of the stairs. She seems to be addressing Cassian, and whatever she’s referring to makes his lips twitch at the corners.</p>
<p>“You just look so…” He trails off.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>H</span>
  <span>ere we go” </span>
  <span>Mor mumbles, picking at her nails. I don’t think there’s a section of her not adorned with jewelry. She wears it well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Official” Cassian continues, then waves a siphon-clad had her way. “</span>
  <span>
    <em>Fancy</em>
  </span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>“Over five hundred years old” Mor says, shaking her head in sorrow. “a skilled warrior and general, famous throughout territories, and complimenting ladies is still something he finds next to impossible. Remind me why we bring you on diplomatic meetings?” I can’t help but smile, but my heart skips a beat as Azriel softly chuckles.</p>
<p>Cassian shoots him a glare.</p>
<p>
  <span> “I don’t see </span>
  <span>
    <em>you</em>
  </span>
  <span> spitting poetry, brother” Azriel crosses his arms, still smiling ever so slightly.</span>
</p>
<p>I can’t help but wish I’d been the one who caused that smile.</p>
<p>“I don’t need to resort to it” No, because you’d rather not say anything at all.</p>
<p>Mor laughs, cackles is a better word for it, and Feyre joins her, granting her a jab from Cassian, and she nudges him right back. And while it’s playful, Cassian looks… Jaded.</p>
<p>
  <span>I lower my gaze to the floor, to my white summer flats Mor and I shopped for so long ago now. With them, I wear a casual pair of lose beige pants and a white blouse. It’s so at odds with their formality that I debate leaving just to not draw attention to myself.</span>
</p>
<p>Fancy’s just never been my thing, but if I have to wear a dress, I will wear it well.</p>
<p>
  <span> The prickling sensation of being watched makes my head lift, and I immediately lock eyes with him across the room, most of him still shrouded in shadow, but his eyes clear. Not bright. Still </span>
  <span>very much</span>
  <span> guarded as he looks at me. </span>
  <span>B</span>
  <span>ut I wonder if that’s just the leash he’s got on himself smothering anything that </span>
  <span>
    <em>would</em>
  </span>
  <span> bring any warmth or light into his eyes, something I only rarely see slip </span>
  <span>his grasp</span>
  <span> when he’s with me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> It isn’t </span>
  <span>disheartening now, to see it there. Because I understand why it is, and instead of matching his cold with indifference of my own, I smile. A faint, flicker of a smile. A goodbye, for now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> He looks away moments after, but not before I catch the faintest glimmer of </span>
  <span>
    <em>something</em>
  </span>
  <span> in his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>Rhys finally arrives, dressed like night itself, marking the company completed. He steps off the stairs and takes Feyre’s hand, the two of them making a clear pair. The darkness of night, and the star that gives it light.</p>
<p>“I thought you were leaving” Nesta’s voice cuts into the air, coming form atop the stairs.</p>
<p>
  <span> I shift my gaze to her, find her dressed in a dress such a dark blue it hardly looks blue at all, but otherwise plain, if Nesta can ever be described as plain. </span>
  <span>She descends the stairs with perfect, regal grace, and the room is left in pure silence.</span>
</p>
<p>Cassian gives her a once-over then turns to Azriel, and the sheer tension in the air makes me want to slip away somewhere else, but I can’t leave before they do, I… I need to be here when they go.</p>
<p>“You look beautiful” Nesta tells her sister, which almost seems to strike her dead where she stands.</p>
<p>“That, Cassian, was what you were attempting to say” Mor states, and he grumbles something foul I can’t quite catch from here. Feyre seems to choose to ignore them both.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Thank you. You do as well” Nesta shrugs. “Why </span>
  <span>
    <em>are</em>
  </span>
  <span> you dressed so nicely? Shouldn’t you be practicing with Amren?” She continues.</span>
</p>
<p>Everyone’s attention shifts to Nesta as she speaks her next words.</p>
<p>
  <span> “I’m going with you” No one says a thing, but Nesta lifts her chin. “I… I do not want to be remembered as a coward” I wonder what conversation I’ve missed, been too busy preparing </span>
  <span>myself</span>
  <span> for war to attend the smaller, though essential conversations between these people. It matters not. If I wasn’t told, it didn’t directly affect any of my dealings I do for them.</span>
</p>
<p>“No one would say that” Feyre says quietly.</p>
<p>“I would” Nesta states, surveying us all. “It was some distant thing. War. Battle. It… it’s not anymore. I will help, if I can. If it means… telling them what happened” Ah, the Cauldron, she a witness to Hybern’s terrible power. I see.</p>
<p>“You’ve given enough” Feyre says, taking a step her way, sparkling dress rustling. “Amren claimed you were close to mastering whatever skill you need. You should stay—focus on that”</p>
<p>“No” She says steadily, tone clear. “A day or two delay with my training won’t make a difference. Perhaps by the time we return, Amren will have decoded the spell in the Book” She shrugs with one shoulder. “You went off to battle for a court you barely know—who barely see you as friends. Amren showed me the blood ruby. And when I asked why… you said because it was the right thing. People needed help” Her throat bobs. “No one is going to fight to save the humans beneath the wall. No one cares. But I do” She fiddles with a fold in her gown. “I do”</p>
<p>Rhys steps up to Feyre’s side.</p>
<p>
  <span> “As High Lady, Feyre is no longer my emissary to the human world” He </span>
  <span>casts</span>
  <span> Nesta a </span>
  <span>careful smile. “Want the job?” Nesta’s face does not let a sliver of emotion past. </span>
</p>
<p>“Consider this meeting a trial basis. And I’ll make you pay through the teeth for my services” A complete opposite of me, then.</p>
<p>
  <span> At first, I refused Rhysand’s money, until he went down to a decently fair sum and I didn’t have the energy to keep refusing the male. He’s probably finding ways to slip more money than we agreed upon anyways though, because I looked and my account is </span>
  <span>
    <em>way</em>
  </span>
  <span> too full.</span>
</p>
<p>I’ll make sure I earn it eventually, help them however I can in this war and whatever way they deem me suitable once it’s over.</p>
<p>Rhys bows.</p>
<p>“I would expect no less of an Archeron sister” Feyre pokes him in the ribs, and he huffs a laugh. “Welcome to the court” He continues on. “You’re about to have one hell of a first day” A smile tugs at Nesta’s mouth.</p>
<p>“No going back now” Cassian says to Rhys, motioning at his wings, shiny and displayed today. Rhys slips his hands into his pockets.</p>
<p>“I figure it’s time for the world to know who really has the largest wingspan” Cassian laughs, Azriel smiles, and I muffle a snort. Because it’s clearly Azriel. Then I realize what they’re insinuating—having spent enough time around Jaxon and his male-friends to know about that little pointless argument between males—and that snort turns into a blush I quickly illusion out of sight.</p>
<p>
  <span>They then proceed to gamble amongst themselves, about who will start a fight first and how quickly into the meeting. But with that settled between them, it’s time for them all to go, and I feel a lump form in the pit of my stomach as I watch them pair up to winnow.</span>
</p>
<p>Only Azriel remains without escort, bound to make his way there alone through the shadows, to be the first one there to scout the place.</p>
<p>Once Rhys gives the order for him to leave, he only spares me one last glance before fading into a cloud of smoke, his heart fading away until it’s nothing but a phantom thump in my chest.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The deeper I get into the story, the scarier it becomes to write. There are so many things I need to get right, so much story to intertwine with my own, and I dread messing up. All your kind comments help me stay motivated, and all you silent readers, you do too. I can't express how much it means to me that you're enjoying my creation, and I hope I continue to please.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Blizzard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Amren arrives at the town house to help safeguard Elain some time after their departure, and she immediately hunkers down to continue decipher the Book. I take up the armchair around the low table with her, my mind mulling over every possible thing that could go wrong as I sit in the silence, only broken by Elain working in the kitchen with Nuala and Cerridwen.</p><p>Apparently, my lack of sound isn’t silent enough to Amren.</p><p>“Worry quieter, Nameless” I shoot her a questioning look, not breaking my spree of silence. “I can hear your heart thundering. Stop worrying about nothing or leave” I sigh and work to calm my breathing, my heart, but it doesn’t quite feel like my own is in there, it doesn’t heed any of my orders to ease—to calm—no matter how I school my breathing to slow. It keeps thumping in there, harshly, almost painfully. Amren shoots me a glare, and I accept defeat and stand, making my way for the garden, figuring some fresh air might help.</p><p>I don’t make it halfway.</p><p>A surge of something so frozen it burns scorches me from the inside, sends my heart into a painful gallop so intense it rips the air out of my lungs, and my knees buckle beneath me, sending me uncushioned to the hardwood floor as I clutch my chest.</p><p>I distantly hear Amren curse, hear the clicks of her soles against the wooden floor, but it’s muffled by the roaring in my ears, the surge of blood rushing through my veins. Somehow, that tiny body of hers turns me to my side, her smoky eyes assessing me with what almost looks like worry as I struggle for breath, struggle to breathe through the pain the raging of my heart instills.</p><p>I don’t quite see her either, or Nuala and Carridwen as they come to see what’s going on. I just see the thin string reaching out across Prythian, beginning its trajectory from my chest, my soul.</p><p>And it’s <em>quaking</em>.</p><p>It’s roaring with emotions so intense they're overwhelming, quaking with guilt, pain, longing, regret, and it’s all being sent from the other end. From Azriel.</p><p>Weakly, I reach my hand out before me, ignoring the hazy shapes surrounding me as I reach for the string I see cording our beings, my hand passing right through it, but my mental hand brushing right along it, the string momentarily easing its tremble at the touch, the caress.</p><p>“<em>Azriel…</em>” I breathe, slipping down the length of the bond, pushing through the blizzard of emotion little by little until I find the wide crack in his walls of shadow, and I slip inside.</p><p>The scenery immediately shifts to someplace else, to a pair of siphon-adorned hands around another male’s throat, said siphons burning with cobalt flame.</p><p>Snapped. He’s snapped. For whatever reason, he’s lost his leash, and thoroughly so.</p><p>I try to call out to him, but he can’t hear me, I’m no daemati, but the light, there is light around him, I could bend it, sign through it.</p><p><em>Azriel</em>. Weak, near translucent words before his eyes, like mist in the autumn mornings.</p><p>He doesn’t see, is too lost in the storm to see.</p><p>So I yank. I wrap my mental hand around the cord and tug.</p><p>I watch the hands around that pale neck tense, pause.</p><p>The bond remains tumultuous and unsteady, but the quaking has eased to an extent. Gently, I brush that mental hand along the string of shadows and moonlight, the former clearly swirling around the later, intertwined in an eternal dance.</p><p>Azriel’s hands loosen from around the High Fae male’s neck, and he turns, meeting Feyre’s gaze beyond a wall of cobalt blue. She reaches out a hand to him, says something I’m too distracted to try and read, and as Azriel does nothing, she waits.</p><p>His eyes shift back to the pale, redheaded male, seems to lean over to whisper something in his ear that makes him pale further, and without being sure whether I did anything to help him at all, or if Feyre ordered him to stop, the shadows I see coiling around Azriel—along with the cobalt wall—fade.</p><p>I feel myself slipping back to my own mind then, almost coaxed out by something beyond my will, as if Azriel noticed me and gently shoved me out, back to my side, and once the world clears again, I’m still on the floor, a pillow resting beneath my throbbing head, Elain sat on the floor before me, doe eyes watching me closely.</p><p>I suck in a deep breath, my lungs so starved I feel like I haven’t taken one in ages, and after the first one I take another, and another, and another, the pain in my chest easing alongside the pace of my heart.</p><p>Elain smiles faintly, then looks off somewhere else in the room, and I follow, finding Amren pacing the floor, eyes murderous.</p><p>“That stupid, stupid boy” She mutters, but quiets down as she notices my eyes on her. Her face goes taut. “What did he do” She demands, and I close my eyes with a sigh.</p><p>“Strangle a male” I rasp, my throat dry and strange.</p><p>“He appeared to be strangling you too” She states, no humor in her voice, only lethality. I suck in a long, deep breath.</p><p>“Unintentional collateral” I sigh on the exhale, reaching a hand up to rub at my brow, my head fuzzy and strange alongside the ache.</p><p>“You and Azriel are mates” Elain says softly, and I lift my gaze to her again.</p><p>“Yes, we are” I admit, tone faint, solemn.</p><p>“It wasn’t a question” She continues sweetly. “I saw it before” My eyes widen. “I was somewhere else, but I saw” I don’t find the words to say to her. “I’m baffled no one else does”</p><p>“You and I both see things other’s don’t” She nods. “In what tense did you see us being mates?” She frowns faintly. “Present? Future?” I can’t help but ask, can’t quell the hopeful curiosity.</p><p>“Past, present and future. It has no beginning or end” I should have expected that answer. I hear Amren sigh from her place still pacing along the floor.</p><p>“Are you going to get off of the floor soon” She mutters, clearly annoyed, but if it’s with me or Azriel or both, I can’t tell.</p><p>“I’ll get up when my head stops pounding, thanks for asking” I mutter, reaching a hand up to massage my brow, finding a slight sore scrape on the left side, the blood already caked.</p><p>“I did not come here to be disturbed to this degree. I need to decipher the Book” I sigh, a sigh lined with a growl.</p><p>“I didn’t choose to be floored, did I Amren?” Her swirling silver eyes snap to me, and I hold their piercing gaze. “And I was <em>just</em> about to leave you alone, I’m sorry I didn’t get my feet knocked out form under me in the solitude of the garden instead” Her nose scrunches up faintly. I sigh and close my eyes. “Sorry” I mumble, and I hear Amren step over to the sitting are again.</p><p>“You’re forgiven” I hear her mutter as the couch creaks softly, and I decide it’s time to at least sit up, but my head feels heavy, throbs. I must have hit my head hard.</p><p>Elain reaches out a hand to me, dusted in remnants of flour, her round brown eyes inviting and kind. I take it, and while she doesn’t pull me to my feet, she helps guide me to them, then keeps holding on to that hand as she guides me out into the garden, to that group of iron chairs and lounge we often have tea at after gardening.</p><p>I take a seat and she takes another, letting go of my hand as she brushes down some crinkles along her dusty pink skirt.</p><p>“Can you see… Is he… Is he alright?” I ask, not daring to glimpse down the bond to find out for myself, or fling my mind down to the dawn court either, not with my head pounding as it is.</p><p>“No” She answers a little too calmly. “He needs time”</p><p>“Did I… I tugged on the bond, to try and stop him, do you think…” I wonder if discussing this with Elain is wise, considering her mate is far away in enemy lands. “Have I pushed him away?” Elain remains quiet and thoughtful for a time.</p><p>“You made a choice, your path has shifted, I can’t see how” I nod, let myself be content with that answer.</p><p>“You’re doing remarkably well, understanding what you see” I calmly appraise her, and Elain smiles faintly.</p><p>“It’s like a painting, but it moves. The more you look, the more you see” I cast her a nod.</p><p>“You find more details. The problem is looking away once you’ve found what you need” In response to my words, she looks up from her lap and settles her eyes right on me.</p><p>“How do you know you’ve found what you need?” She asks, and I cast her an encouraging look, glad she’s trying to understand, learn.</p><p>“You go in searching for something in particular, for smaller things, so you always feel like you’ve found <em>something</em>, otherwise you’ll be lost looking for eternity” She nods slowly, taking in my words.</p><p>“But what if I don’t choose to go, how do I know what I seek?” I smile softly. A very valid question.</p><p>“As a Seer, your visions always have some kind of higher purpose. Mine do not. I don’t know how to teach you to find the purpose of your involuntary visions, but I suggest you write down what you see whenever you happen to emerge again, as many details as you can. You might find connections in text you don’t find in sight” it's the best advise I can give her, and she nods, seems content with it.</p><p>“Like you did when I was floating” So she’d noticed.</p><p>“Just like that” I confirm, and a soft smile plays on her lips.</p><p>“Thank you” She states, prompting my brows to raise.</p><p>“For what?” I question.</p><p>“Helping me”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. The Wall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rhys checks in with Amren later in the day, asking whether everything’s as it should. Amren says that it is, doesn’t mention my little tumble, because why would she, and Rhys leaves shortly thereafter, giving a brief explanation that Nesta’s feeling off.</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s concerning, but nothing immediate, nothing that disturbs Elain and I as we bake muffins in the kitchen, Nuala and Carridwen there as wordless support.</span>
</p>
<p>I’ve never baked in my life<span>—hardly cooked for that matter—</span>but at the end of it, we’ve manage to make a basket of decently tasty lemon and vanilla muffins, a basket we both divulge on once they’ve cooled enough not to burn our tongues. Elain finishes an entire one before her appetite seems to dwindle. I can only stomach two before I’m full, especially since we had lunch not long ago, and we leave the rest for the Circle to enjoy once they return. We make a note saying we made them, and that they’re free to munch however they please.</p>
<p>If Elain realizes I write my real name on the note, she doesn’t say. I wonder if she has heard it already, in her visions.</p>
<p>The reason I insist on adding our names is partly because I’m proud of our work, and I’m nervous about the workings of the bond.</p>
<p>If I make food and offer it to everyone, and Azriel takes one, does it indirectly count as accepting the bond? I don’t know, I don’t want to risk the possibility. So if I find Azriel avoiding the basket, I won’t take offense. I’ll assume he’s having similar trails of thought.</p>
<p>
  <span>Once night falls, Elain has long since gone to bed, fallen asleep, but I’m left wide awake in my guestroom in the town house, staring into the darkness. I hear it whisper, faintly, the shadows keeping at a distance. They have since that night, like they’re ashamed of themselves, and I pray it isn’t a bi-product of Azriel learning of the events that unfolded in the darkness of my room in the House.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> He wasn’t that far away that night, his own room just a couple flights and some hallways away. That thought doesn’t make anything better. What relieves me is that I haven’t had another of those… </span>
  <span>
    <em>dreams</em>
  </span>
  <span>. I’ve only seen remnants, woken up a little breathless in their wake, but quickly taken care of it with a cold bath. For all I know, he doesn’t suspect a thing.</span>
</p>
<p>For all I know, he’s keenly aware.</p>
<p>Thinking back on what Elain said<span>—</span>that he wasn’t okay after whatever happened at the meeting<span>—</span>I take a shot in the dark.</p>
<p>
  <span> “If he’s off brooding somewhere” I begin, addressing the shadows. </span>
  <span>They seem to draw closer, to listen, curious. </span>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>If he knows what his outburst did to me. If you’ve told him of it and he feels guilty about it. Could you tell him I’m fine?” The shadows murmur in response, then withdraw, and I suck in a slow breath as I hope my message comes across, hope it’s taken the right way, and doesn’t work to push him further away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sleep proves even more futile from there</span>
  <span>, </span>
  <span>but it proves to be a good thing as soft knocking sounds at my door, and I sit up straight.</span>
</p>
<p>“Come in” I call, and the door opens to reveal Elain, face stained with tears, distressed. I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, using the light stored within me to make myself glow, illuminating the darkness as I stride for her, clad in a nightgown tonight, having learned my lesson since that night. “What’s wrong?” I question, taking her trembling hands in my own as I guide her towards the armchair, sitting her down carefully, kneeling before her.</p>
<p>“They’re crying. Screaming” She breathes.</p>
<p>“Who?” I ask calmly, brushing some of her golden hair out of her face.</p>
<p>
  <span> “The world. The earth. </span>
  <span>
    <em>Everything</em>
  </span>
  <span>” Her words are a sobbing mess. “Make it stop” She begs, and my heart twists in my chest.</span>
</p>
<p>“I can’t, Elain”</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>
    <em>Make it stop</em>
  </span>
  <span>” I can’t help myself, can’t stop myself from pulling her in against my chest, can’t fight the urge to soothe and ease as she begs. In response, her hands palm my nightgown, her sobs growing louder, and I fold my wings around her in an effort to comfort, this so terribly foreign to me I have no clear clue what I’m doing, merely hoping I’m doing it right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My door creaks open again, and I cast a glance behind me to find Amren in the doorway, glimmers of concern in her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>Vision. Crying. Screaming</em>
  </span>
  <span>. I sign to her, the words weak and faint. She eyes the words carefully, silver eyes swirling. </span>
  <span>
    <em>Something’s not right</em>
  </span>
  <span>. I continue, and she seems to decide on something, and leaves, probably to patrol the city for whatever could be instilling this reaction.</span>
</p>
<p>So I stay with Elain. Even as my knees ache, I keep kneeling before her, nearly supporting all her weight as I hold her through her distress.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~</span>
  <span>O~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The possible cause of Elain’s distress is revealed the next day, shortly after the world itself trembled in the wake of something powerful and ancient. </span>
</p>
<p>I tried to look and find what had happened while still keeping one foot in myself, but Amren came and gave the cause before I could look much further than the outskirts of Velaris.</p>
<p>The wall has fallen. Been torn to shreds by the King of Hybern and the Cauldron.</p>
<p>
  <span> With us all gathered around the dinner table in the town house, it </span>
  <span>
    <em>should</em>
  </span>
  <span> be what we immediately discuss, but no one seems to know where to start, just pick at their food in silent contemplation. I’m one of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The issue with Azriel has also completely slipped my mind in the wake of this disaster.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “We should have evacuated months ago” Nesta says, </span>
  <span>breaking the silence</span>
  <span>, referring to the humans south of the wall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>We can go to your estate tonight—evaluate your household and bring them back here” Rhys suggests in response.</span>
</p>
<p>“They will not come”</p>
<p>“Then they will likely die” Nesta doesn’t seem fond of that answer.</p>
<p>“Can’t you spirit them away somewhere south—far from here?” A good plan in theory, messy in execution.</p>
<p>
  <span> “That many people? Not without first finding a safe place, which would take time we don’t have” Rhys seems to consider. “If we get a ship, they can sail—” He </span>
  <span>isn't</span>
  <span> allowed to finish the thought.</span>
</p>
<p>“They will demand their families and friends come” Silence follows her words, until Elain speaks, ever so softly.</p>
<p>
  <span> “We could move them to Graysen’s estate” Whoever this Graysen is, the thought of him seems to unnerve her, gnaw at some wound in her. “</span>
  <span>His father has high walls—made of thick stone. With space for plenty of people and supplies” I realize she’s wearing a ring then, feel stupid for not noticing before. A plain iron engagement ring.</span>
</p>
<p>I can see all across the world, but sometimes I’m utterly blind to the things laid out right before my eyes are, as if they’re too close.</p>
<p>“His father has been planning for something like this for… a long time. They have defenses, stores” She takes a shallow breath. “And a groove of ash trees, with a cache of weapons made from them” Sounds like a pleasant fellow.</p>
<p>Cassian’s snarl seems to suggest he agrees.</p>
<p>“If the faeries who attack possess magic” Cassian begins, tone harsh, so much so Elain recoils. “then thick stone won’t do much”</p>
<p>“There are escape tunnels” Elain goes on, her voice a whisper. “Perhaps it is better than nothing” The Illyrian brother’s glance between one another.</p>
<p>“We can set up a guard—” Elain cuts him off, her voice clear and strong.</p>
<p>“No. They… Graysen and his father…” She trails off, but we all know what she means.</p>
<p>“Then we cloak—” Elain seems intent on stopping conversations before they start today.</p>
<p>“They have hounds. Bred and trained to hunt you. Detect you” Silence follows those words, stiff and heavy with thought.</p>
<p>
  <span> “You can’t mean to leave their castle undefended” Cassian pushes on eventually, his tone gentler. “Even with ash, it won’t be enough. We’d need to set wards at the very minimum” If only my illusions worked at night. I could have </span>
  <span>made the entire castle vanish from the map. The scent of human would have given it away though, and the walls when any hunting faeries eventually stumble onto them.</span>
</p>
<p>“I can speak to him” Elain’s offer is immediately refused by both Feyre and Nesta, the both of them uttering the word ‘No’ at the same time. But Elain pushes on, refusing to be denied. “If—if you and… they” She glances at us all. “come with me, your Fae scents might distract the dogs” Not a bad idea.</p>
<p>“You’re Fae too” Nesta points out.</p>
<p>“Glamour me” She looks to Rhysand, then me. “Illusion me. Make me look human. Just long enough to convince him to open his gates to those seeking sanctuary. Perhaps even let you set those wards around the estate” Not a bad plan, risky, but not bad.</p>
<p>“This could end very badly, Elain” Feyre states, her tone even and calm, as if to sway her mind. Elain brushes a thumb over the iron ring on her finger.</p>
<p>“It’s already ended badly. Now it’s just a matter of deciding how we meet the consequences”</p>
<p>“Wisely said” Mor gives voice to my thoughts, offering Elain a smile before looking to Cassian. “You need to move the Illyrians today” He nods, then looks to Rhys.</p>
<p>
  <span> “With the wall down, we need you to make a few things clear to the Illyrians. I need you at the camp with me—to give one of your pretty </span>
  <span>speeches</span>
  <span> before we go” Rhys mouth twitches towards a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “We can all go—then head to the human lands” He surveys us all. “We have am hour to prepare. Meet back here—then we leave” I’m gone without another word, back in the House of wind to change into my Illyrian leathers, to prepare for whatever I might face </span>
  <span>both</span>
  <span> in </span>
  <span>the war camp</span>
  <span> and the human lands.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. The Hour</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As I’m braiding back my hair into a tighter, more restricting braid to keep it from swaying and getting in the way, I realize I’m no longer alone in my suite. Maintaining my calm, I speak into the apparent emptiness of my room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “It’s physically impossible for you to </span>
  <span>go undetected around me. I </span>
  <span>always </span>
  <span>hear you” I’m met with silence, but the shadow’s almost cackle, like they’re mocking their master for even trying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I wonder what he hears, what string of mockery they cast his way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>If you’ve come to convince me not to go to </span>
  <span>the Illyrian war-camp or</span>
  <span> the human lands, you’ve come on a fools errand” He stays wrapped in shadows, somewhere in the room, somewhere behind me. </span>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>If you’ve come to merely watch me, I question your priorities” To either make him leave or show himself, and whichever he chooses, I’ll accept it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>And if I’ve come to see you” His even, smooth voice makes me pause, as does the sight of him manifesting </span>
  <span>before the</span>
  <span> wall </span>
  <span>behind</span>
  <span> me, something I glimpse in the vanity mirror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Then I’</span>
  <span>d consider asking why you didn’t use the main door, but that’d be a stupid question considering who I’m speaking to” I let glimpses of humor sneak past the calm in my face, softening the cold to something more inviting, even if I </span>
  <span>
    <em>should</em>
  </span>
  <span> be walling myself off in preparation for what’s to come.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m relieved when the shadows whirling around him part to reveal a soft smile tugging at his </span>
  <span>lips</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>How did the meeting go. I’m not sure I caught anyone mentioning it” I ask calmly, keeping my tone neutral, if just a little curious as I work to make sure the knot is done right. He leans back against the wall, getting comfortable.</span>
</p>
<p>“Five out of six have joined us” He answers smoothly.</p>
<p>“And which Court isn’t rallying with us?” I catch the briefest flash of something dangerous in his eyes.</p>
<p>“Autumn” His tone alone tells me he isn’t fond of the Autumn Court. “Their High Lord might still be swayed” The answer feels rehearsed rather than genuine.</p>
<p>
  <span> “War will affect him even if he chooses not to fight. He can’t escape it” He nods, hums. </span>
  <span>Then I notice Azriel attention drift from me, to my right. To my bed.</span>
</p>
<p>I pause all I’m doing for a second before I force myself to carry on undisturbed, even though his eyes linger there, the shadows around him growing thicker.</p>
<p>There shouldn’t be anything left in the air for him to scent, nothing of that night or the other nights when the glimmer came back. I’ve been keeping the small windows open to make sure it airs out, but he… There’s something different in his eyes as he looks at that bed, and the sight of it sends an involuntary thrill down my spine, makes hazy memories surface.</p>
<p>
  <span>I ruffle my wings, spread them out and tuck them back in, successfully swaying his gaze from my neatly made bed, though a part of me would have rather had him looking there than directly at me, and I try my best not to quiver as I do the last bit of the braid, fastening the weaving with a </span>
  <span>leather band.</span>
</p>
<p>“Are the shadows a part of you, or something else” I ask, partly ‘cause I’m curious, and also because the silence is growing too heavy.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Both” He answers, none of what I glimpse in his eyes showing through his voice. </span>
  <span>I turn to face him from my seat on the stool, a brow raised in question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To actually see him there, leaned against the wall on the other end of my room, dark and glorious in his scaly armor, brings an instant heat to my cheeks, and I quickly throw up an illusion to mask it.</span>
</p>
<p>“It’s hard to explain, but they’re an extension of my senses, an extension of my will” I wait for him to go on, seeing how he works to forge the right words. “But they’re also something else, something different that’s chosen to fuse with me”</p>
<p>
  <span> “Something conscious?” Perhaps it’s foolish to ask, maybe he knows exactly why I’m curious, but I </span>
  <span>
    <em>am</em>
  </span>
  <span> curious, and I’m going to get answers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Talking helps distract me as well, distract me from how gorgeous he is, how </span>
  <span>powerful</span>
  <span> he looks </span>
  <span>in</span>
  <span> his armor, how large his wings seem—even though folded. And his scent. Gods his scent is consuming. It was calming and soothing when I first arrived, comforting, and it still is at times. But here, in this room, it’s alluring and distracting. It makes me </span>
  <span>
    <em>want</em>
  </span>
  <span>, and I can’t let him sense that.</span>
</p>
<p>I’m not sure how he’ll react if he senses that.</p>
<p>
  <span>I mentally curse as heat blooms in my chest, my heart picking up pace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “In a way” Azriel answers, playing the part of oblivious male, but from what Amren said about his ability to repress and restrain himself, it could all very well be an act to shield me, to shield himself. “</span>
  <span>They do as I order, but also what they want when I don’t give any” </span>
  <span>I nod slowly, looking down at my hand, where a certain shadow often twirls. Not now though, he seems to be strictly tugging his shadows to himself right now. “You said you get lost. </span>
  <span>In the light</span>
  <span>” I look back at him, bite the inside of my cheek as trail my eyes up his tall frame, back to his captivating gaze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>If I drift without keeping track of where I’m going, I sometimes can’t find my way back”</span>
</p>
<p>“There’s no tether back to your body?” I shake my head. The only tether here is the one between the two of us.</p>
<p>“It’s just a vast sea of light to traverse, to make sense of. If I get stuck out in the dark, I have to wait till sunrise or pray the moon supplies enough to let me see where I’m going. If I don’t find my way back… I wither away with time” His posture tenses.</p>
<p>“Have you been lost before?”</p>
<p>
  <span> “Plenty of times” I say, rising to snatch my blades from the dresser, to strap them to my back. “The longest was just over three weeks. Healers had to manually supply me with food and water—manage my body. I don’t remember them doing it, but I was told” I shift my wings to give</span>
  <span> me clear reach to my back and carefully begin fastening the straps. “I learnt to manage it around a decade into my life, but it’s always a risk” I curse softly as the binds refuse to do what I want.</span>
</p>
<p>“Do you need help?” I look back at him over my shoulder.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>
  <span> “With the binds” I gulp, but find myself nodding, looking back ahead of myself as his shoes click against the polished stone floor, approaching calmly, each step even and composed. </span>
  <span>His heart is not however.</span>
</p>
<p>My own is keeping up pace with his, thumping in sync in my head, and as the warmth of his closeness seeps through my leathers—and his hands take over the task of tying my blades to my back—it’s a task in itself to keep my breathing even.</p>
<p>The hot plumes of his own breath tickles the back of my head as he silently works, and while I thought his scent was consuming before, to be this close to the source has my mental restraints melting faster than I can rebuild them, sparking a heat in my chest that I feel coiling lower and lower. <span>I leash it as best I can, weave a faint barrier of air to mask any trace of my reaction to the best of my abilities, but with the added distraction of his shadows—</span><span>not quite touching me, but urging me closer—I can barely concentrate.</span></p>
<p>For a moment, I think I might manage to do this, his hands swift and efficient as they work to strap the first blade to my back. But then he does the second, and as he puts it in place, scissored with the other, he brushes against the base of my wing.</p>
<p>
  <span>I can’t strangle the gasp, or stop my wing from jerking, or stop the heat from coiling in my center, or concentrate hard enough to keep the barrier solid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I hear him take a breath—just a little sharper than the rest—but his hands continue to strap my blade to my back. Slowly and carefully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Forcing my mouth shut, I breathe slow and steady breaths through my nose—despite my lungs desperate demand for air—and to my horror, even </span>
  <span>
    <em>I</em>
  </span>
  <span> can scent myself, which means he definitely can.</span>
</p>
<p>“I’m sorry” He mumbles, voice a dark rasp that has shivers rushing down my spine.</p>
<p>“It’s fine” But my voice betrays me as well, breathy and meek as it is.</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets the straps to stick, gives them the slightest test tug to make sure they’ll hold, then his hand leaves, and I have the time to think him done before his hand returns, gently brushing along the back of my hairline as he gather’s my braid in his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>I close my eyes, casting some pathetic prayer the Mother’s way, begging her to not let this ruin things, to scare him away.</p>
<p>But so far, he doesn’t seem inclined to go anywhere.</p>
<p>“I’ve never seen this” He mumbles, that rough edge still very present, and very hot.</p>
<p>“A braid?” I try to throw some humor into the mix, but my weightless voice falls flat. And yet he laughs, a short, sharp chuckle.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>This kind” I assume he’s brushing his thumb along it, as the faintest bit of pressure is put on my roots.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Seraphim war-braids” I supply softly, and he lets it rest limply down my back again, reaching just below my neck. “Should I braid you one?” What in the </span>
  <span>
    <em>world</em>
  </span>
  <span> am I saying.</span>
</p>
<p>“My hair’s too short” I look back at him over my shoulder, well aware my cheeks are burning, but in too deep for it to matter, in so deep I might as well enjoy myself.</p>
<p>
  <span> “No it’s not” </span>
  <span>I make to turn, and Azriel takes a step back to let me, bringing us face to face. It doesn’t make this any easier. Leaning back against the dresser, I asses his dark lovely hair, more than plenty there to make a tight braid. “I’d just have to be firm about it” His eyes narrow, darken, yet somehow seem to glow as they assess me, trail down my front, back up to my face, then hone in on a spot at my left brow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> My breath catches as his hand reaches out, cupping my </span>
  <span>fore</span>
  <span>head </span>
  <span>with</span>
  <span> his rough, scarred </span>
  <span>palm, his</span>
  <span> thumb run</span>
  <span>ning</span>
  <span> over a jagged line of pale skin, the touch devastatingly soft and gentle. </span>
  <span>It’s w</span>
  <span>hat remains of my fall in the town house, the impact as my head hit the </span>
  <span>floor</span>
  <span> hard enough to scrape skin, draw a sliver of blood and result in this </span>
  <span>slight mark</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes don’t sway from that scar, and whatever primal darkness I glimpsed in there has been overthrown by this bleakness. Guilt. He knows what did this, knows exactly what did this.</span>
</p>
<p>My mouth opens to say something, but no words come out, not a single word.</p>
<p>
  <span> Never taking his eyes off of that remnant of hurt his </span>
  <span>snap</span>
  <span> left behin</span>
  <span>d</span>
  <span>, his hand slips down </span>
  <span>to the side of my face, to my cheek. And then he bends down, </span>
  <span>brushes</span>
  <span> a feather-light kiss along the line before vanishing in a flurry of shadow. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Human Lands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Despite what I told him, I debate sitting this one out with Amren rather than coming along to the Illyrian camp, not sure whether I can face Azriel again after </span>
  <span>all </span>
  <span>that, not without my walls melting into a mess again. I juggle the possibility of that having been his plan, but there’s no way he </span>
  <span>
    <em>planned</em>
  </span>
  <span> any of that, he just couldn’t have.</span>
</p>
<p>But sitting this out feels wrong, very wrong. All I need is a moment to breathe. To breathe air that isn’t laced with his scent. So I come up with another way to be helpful.</p>
<p>
  <span> Arriving early at the town house, I find Rhys alone and express my desire to go ahead to the human lands, to scout out this estate and the area surrounding it. </span>
  <span>W</span>
  <span>hile </span>
  <span>he</span>
  <span> seems hesitant to accept my request, </span>
  <span>he eventually does, granted I let him into my mind for a clearance report before they winnow in, which makes me hesitate but ultimately agree.</span>
</p>
<p>It’s not because the thought of Rhys slipping past my walls is daunting anymore, but because I can’t be sure I’ve sorted out everything by then, and I dread the thought of Rhys glimpsing something he shouldn’t.</p>
<p>Rhys wouldn’t tease, not as openly as Cassian, but he’d still use it to annoy us both, I’m sure of it. It’s the last thing we need right now.</p>
<p>So with the deal settled, Rhys shows me a map, points out the estate and I head on my way, saving my energy by bending across the length of Prythian, high up in the sky where the sunlight is the brightest, above the clouds shrouding the land bellow. But once I reach what must be the human sliver of Prythain based on the geology and general lack of magical feel to it, I return to the physical and soar high above, illusioned into nothing but a clear sky.</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long to find Graysen’s estate, the entire land surrounded by a thick wall of solid stone, and while I don’t dare fly </span>
  <span>
    <em>too</em>
  </span>
  <span> close, I fly close enough to note the sentries guarding the gate, patrolling the walls, and those hounds Elain spoke of are among them, mercifully calm as I glide above, my scent not carrying down to them.</span>
</p>
<p>I make sure it remains as such with the help of an air barrier, one much stronger than my sorry attempt in the House less than an hour ago.</p>
<p>Once I’ve investigated everything as closely as I’ve dared, having found those escape tunnels Elain spoke of after a surprisingly long amount of time, I settle on just soaring, keeping a cautious eye on the human lands bellow, but really just sorting out my mind.</p>
<p>I’ve come to the assumption that Azriel came to see me because he knew of my tumble, wished to make sure all was well. At least I assume it to be part of the reason. Being in my room alone with me must have worn at his guard and made him… bolder, more daring, but even though I failed to hide my reactions to him, he remained nothing but restrained. I saw the truth in his eyes, that darkness of want, but he didn’t act on it, not once.</p>
<p>That kiss wasn’t the result of that darkness either, but an apology, the result of his gnawing guilt.</p>
<p>Amren’s right, I should give him some praise. Self control is strong in that male</p>
<p>Thinking of the kiss has my cheeks heating again, but it isn’t the heat of want or desire, but this prickling tingle of something else, something gentler and sweeter, just as the kiss itself had been. It’s his first clearly physical sign that he cares, and if he’s ready to take that little step, I’m going to try and be ready to take some little steps as well.</p>
<p>Dark talons tap on my mental walls, and I quickly shove back my thoughts and pull out my report, then open just a crack in my guard that he expertly finds.</p>
<p><em>Is this plan plausible?</em> Rhys questions, and I can tell he desperately wishes it to be.</p>
<p><em>Yes, the land within the walls is vast enough to hold plenty.</em> He said he could hear my thoughts if I threw them hard enough at him, so I hope I’m throwing hard enough.</p>
<p>
  <em>And will the walls hold?</em>
</p>
<p><em> Not if subjected to an all out assault, but if you can convince them to ward the perimeter, then yes.</em> I make sure not to sink down too low as I speak with Rhys, to not lose track of myself and drift too low.</p>
<p><em>Is it safe to winnow? </em>My eyes drift to the guards, armed with both steel and ash weaponry.</p>
<p>
  <em> Define safe.</em>
</p>
<p><em> So no</em>. I try to throw him an image, of those sentries stood guard by the one gate into the lands.</p>
<p>
  <em>There are sentries, quivers full of ash arrows. If you’re doing this, keep strong walls up. No risks.</em>
</p>
<p><em> Do I </em>ever <em>take risks</em>. He drawls in my mind, and I roll my eyes.</p>
<p><em>I’m pretty sure you do. </em>His answer is a low laugh, one that seems to echo in my mind. It’s discomforting, but not enough to shove him out.</p>
<p>
  <em>Stay watch in the—I was about to say shadows—stay hidden in the light and observe.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Yes, </em>High Lord. I mock, and he draws back with a quick laugh, leaving me to repair my wall and refocus my attention on the world bellow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~O~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I watch them winnow in, nothing but a specter of light as I trail their path towards the estate walls, Elain in the lead, glamoured to be human rather than illusioned due to my absence. It makes no difference, she looks human and that’s really all we need.</p>
<p>Elain spoke to one of the sentries, made her request, and soon that same man was up in a saddle, galloping towards the estate. Even with my keen Fae sight, I allowed myself to trail after him, just to watch him enter that fortress of brown stone, discovering not one, but two gates of passage before getting inside the place. I return to the outskirts then, where my chosen Court and friends are waiting, and I observe, just as Rhys ordered.</p>
<p>Backup, I realize. In case something goes wrong, in case those terrified sentries fire an arrow, I’m backup. Unseen to give off the appearance of being weaker than they are, even if the six of them are powerful in their own right, Elain in her own way.</p>
<p>The sisters discuss amongst themselves, and I continue to circle the perimeter of them all, though taking a wider berth around Azriel, who looks completely unruffled where he’s stood by a shaded oak.</p>
<p>He should consider becoming an actor.</p>
<p>Finally, after a wait I didn’t bother to measure, a yellow flag is raised in the distance, along the fortress gate, and a one of the guards speak.</p>
<p>“He’ll come out and see you”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~O~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I do <em>not</em> like the space we’re taken to, the small confined room of the guardhouse. Yet I linger in the patches of light in the room, observing as I’m told, one hand posted to draw a dagger and the other a blade should anything go wrong in here.</p>
<p>My friends can easily get out of here should they wish, turn this stone to rubble, but precautions are never unnecessary. With my senses honed on the outside, I hardly register the words shared between Feyre and Nesta.</p>
<p>When I hear horses approach, I cast an extended glance out to see, but Azriel gives the verbal report.</p>
<p>“Two dozen guards” He murmurs, words directed at Rhys. Then he glances at Elain. “And Lord Graysen and his father, Lord Nolan”</p>
<p>Steps approach, and then the door bangs open, and a young panting man reveals himself in the doorway.</p>
<p>While Feyre takes him in closely, as if she’s forgotten how different human men are to the faerie males, I’ve seen enough humans in my five hundred years to know. Living amongst them on Cretea leaves me indifferent about their lack of magical strength or otherworldly grace. I’ve always kept a personal distance from them on Cretea, but not out of ire or distaste. They just die so quickly. The thought of befriending one only for them to last a sliver of my existence feels like a kind of torture.</p>
<p>Elain and Graysen can’t seem to take their eyes off one another, the former letting out soft gasp at the sight of him, and the latter taking a staggering step her way, but is stopped by a firm hand at his shoulder.</p>
<p>I assume it to be Lord Nolan.</p>
<p>“Sir—Lord Nolan…” Elain’s words fail her.</p>
<p>“The wall has come down” Nesta says, stepping to Elain’s side. Graysen looks at Nesta, sees her Otherness.</p>
<p>“How” His voice is a low rasp.</p>
<p>“I was kidnapped” Nesta answers coldly. “I was taken by the army invading these lands and turned against my will”</p>
<p>“How” Lord Nolan echoes his son.</p>
<p>“There is a Cauldron—a weapon. It grants its owner power to… do such things. I was a test” Then she proceeds to tell a short, sharp story regarding what’s happened, all involved in the happenings.</p>
<p>“And who are your companions?” To reveal such a thing is a gamble, but being here is also a gamble. So Feyre tells them, introduces each of my present friends and their purpose in the court.</p>
<p>I assume she knows I’m here, that Rhys has told her, but there’s no way of knowing for certain.</p>
<p>To Lord Nolan’s credit, he does not pale in the wake of all those powerful titles.</p>
<p>“Elain” Graysen finally breathes. “Elain—why are you <em>with</em> them?”</p>
<p>“Because she is our sister” Nesta answers for her. “And there is no safer place for her during this war than with us” Implying this place isn’t safe. Let’s hope they don’t find it insulting.</p>
<p>Elain speaks then, begs the Lords to open their gates to any humans who might come, to protect them when the human queens will not. Neither of them responds for a while, but pain ripples in Graysen’s blue eyes as they fall to Elain’s engagement ring.</p>
<p>Our attempted deception—however goodhearted in nature—unravels then, as it’s revealed that they <em>know</em> Elain was turned Fae first, were given a clear report. Even knows about her mate.</p>
<p>Now, Rhys asks the question we’re all thinking, <em>how </em>does he know this, who told him, but I’d already realized, spotted the man approaching this little guard post, and I’m not quite sure how to feel about it.</p>
<p>“I did” Jurian says, strolling through the door.</p>
<p>In the wake of his arrival, I search the perimeters, search for any Hybern troops, but find none, return fast enough to hear him state that he’s indeed come alone, but I don’t trust it.</p>
<p>As they talk, Jurian, Lord Nolan, my friends, I keep prone to pounce at any second, a dagger unsheathed, as incorporeal as I am. Even as he calls the queens snakes, traitors, I don’t believe it.</p>
<p>But his voice is clear, his eyes are clear, free from the madness I recall witnessing. There’s just steady calculation and awareness, like the Jurian I remember.</p>
<p>“He resurrected me to turn them to his cause, believing I had gone mad during the five hundred years Amarantha trapped me. So I was reborn, and found myself surrounded by old enemies—faces I had once marked to kill. I found myself on the wrong side of a wall, with the human realm poised to shatter beneath it” Maybe I underestimated him, maybe I accepted his madness too quickly.</p>
<p>He looks at Mor, who looks about as unconvinced as I am, along with everyone else.</p>
<p>“You were my friend” His voice strains to say. “We fought back-to-back during some battles. And yet you believed me at first sight—believed that I’d ever let them <em>turn</em> me” No human fought for freedom as fiercely as he did, why in the world would he side with the Fae intent on destroying the human realm? All over a petty quarrel with Miryam and Drakon.</p>
<p>And why the hell would they run away from him? One mortal man.</p>
<p>Something’s not right.</p>
<p>“You went mad with—with Clythia. It was <em>madness</em>. It destroyed you” Mor answers his words, and I agree, witnessed enough of said madness to agree.</p>
<p>“And I was glad to do it” Jurian snarls, almost like he’s a Fae himself. “I was <em>glad</em> to do it, if it brought us an edge in that war. I didn’t <em>care</em> that what it did to me, what it broke in me. If it meant we could be <em>free</em>. And I have had five hundred years to think about it. While being held prisoner by my enemy. Five hundred years, Mor” I shudder, hardly able to fathom what that’d be like, the vast span of time turning my dozen years into nothing but a drop in the ocean.</p>
<p>“You played the villain convincingly enough, Jurian” Rhys cuts in with a purr. His eyes snap to the High Lord in the room.</p>
<p>“You should have looked. I expected you to <em>look</em> into my mind, to see the truth. Why didn’t you?” Rhys says nothing for a long time.</p>
<p>“I didn’t want to see her” I don’t understand what that means, not truly, but with how softly he says those words, I assume he has good reason.</p>
<p>“You mean to imply” Mor pushes on. “that you’ve been working to help <em>us</em> during this?”</p>
<p>“Where better to plot your enemy’s demise, to learn their weaknesses, than at their side?” Just like with Clythia. How didn’t we see it? Why didn’t <em>I</em> see it?</p>
<p>Even with eyes in all corners of the world, I remain blind.</p>
<p>“Why the obsession to find Miryam and Drakon?” Mor questions.</p>
<p>“It’s what the world expects of me. What Hybern expects. And if he grants my asking price to find them… Drakon has a legion capable of turning the tide in battle. It was why I allied with him during the War. I don’t doubt Drakon still has it trained and ready. Word will have reached him by now. Especially that I am looking for them”</p>
<p>A warning then, that bigger things are going on, to alert the prince and princess of Cretea. But if my disappearance didn’t alert that, then… Unless… What were the whispers from Hybern? Drakon never specified, said he’d heard rumors of movement on the island, wished for me to investigate, but…</p>
<p>This isn’t making sense.</p>
<p>“You don’t want to kill Miryam and Drakon” Feyre states more than asks the reborn human. He shakes his head, just once.</p>
<p>“No. I want to beg their forgiveness” Looking to my friends, I find silver lining Mor’s eyes, silver she furiously tries to blink away.</p>
<p>“Miriam and Drakon have vanished” Rhys says, his eyes ever so subtly drifting my way, as if he can sense the presence of my mind here. “Their people with them” Except me.</p>
<p>“Then find them” Jurian says, jerking his head in Azriel’s direction. “Send the Shadowsinger, send whomever you trust, but <em>find</em> them” Silence follows. “Look into my head” He addresses Rhys. “Look, and see for yourself”</p>
<p>“Why now, why here?” Jurian holds his gaze.</p>
<p>“Because the wall came down, and now I can move freely—to warn the humans here. Because…” He looses a long breath. “Because Tamlin ran right back to Hybern after your meeting ended morning. Right to their camp in the Spring Court, where Hybern now plans to launch a land assault on Summer tomorrow”</p>
<p>Whatever I wish to say to this man, to ask, is ruled out by that statement, that promise of coming conflict, and when Azriel vanishes in a cloud of shadow, spearing for the north to warn Cassian, I follow.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A lot of plot, but fun stuff is coming</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. Moments Before</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Azriel doesn’t look remotely surprised when I appear in Cassian’s war-tent, where Azriel brought him upon finding him in the organized mess to discuss the new information, wisely keeping the revelation quiet until <em>after</em> we’ve gotten to the privacy of the tent.</p><p>Cassian’s initial reaction to the approaching carnage is not pretty, not at all, and while I’m stood a few paces away from Azriel, a little behind him, his wing still uncurls to shield me as Cassian’s seven siphons gleam and flicker with power, Cassian searching through his things for a map over the Seasonal Court, cursing at everything including himself as he digs it out.</p><p>Once he does, he spreads it out across the table between us, his green-hazel eyes darting across the land along the border, searching for a plan of action. A commander in his natural habitat, clearly.</p><p>“Estelle” Cassian must have seen the muffin basket. “Can you find Hybern’s camp, point it out to me” A calm demand.</p><p>I step forward, Azriel’s wing tucking back in as I pass, and I brace a hand against the desk as I fling half my mind down south, searching while still present. I traverse plains and forests and rivers, until finally, I see it. A vast force of an army, yet not even close to the full extent of Hybern’s might, it can’t be.</p><p>Struggling to stay present yet still observe this dark mass of death looming on the horizon, I let my left hand hover over the map, my index finger ready to mark the spot, if only I can figure out the terrain, which is easier said than done when your mind is split in two.</p><p>Fully going to the Spring Court would delay the information too much, this is fine, I can do this, I’ve done this plenty. Yet getting my body to move is difficult, the motion jagged as I place my finger on the map.</p><p>“There…” I breathe, then make a little circle. “They’re there” That Hybern hasn’t warded the camp from me is either a taunt, a bold move of arrogance, or plain stupidity.</p><p>“Numbers” Cassian continues to demand.</p><p>“I… Many, thousands, I can’t—” A sharp headache blooms at my brow, and I cringe, sway on my feet, but a hand lands at my back, stabilizing me. I lift my hazy gaze to Cassian, who looks mildly concerned from across the table. “I can’t count them all at a glance, give me time” He nods, looks to Azriel, and I look to a chair placed in the room and escape to it, sitting down to do some counting, though staying present in the here just in case.</p><p>“Scout the terrain” Cass orders Azriel, and shadows immediately threaten to consume the male. But one glance—just one—is cast my way before he fades. My head’s too hazy and focused on counting heads to read into it.</p><p>What ensues is a contemplative silence so deep I don’t believe it’s Cassian I’m here with, but it is, and his focus is unwavering as he mulls over the plan, where to move our camp, where to strike the enemy, when to do it.</p><p>“Tell me if my nose starts bleeding” I mumble into the silence, granting me Cassian’s attention, but all he does is nod, and that is the end of it.</p><p> </p><p>~O~</p><p> </p><p>I find the numbers, and Azriel finds what he left to find, and with our combined information, Cassian makes his move.</p><p>The war-camp is moved to the northern border of the Winter Court, up in a remote part of the mountains, and this time, illusioned as a High Fae healer, I help construction, even as the chill bites into my bones, forms ice along my masked feathers.</p><p>Only when dark threatens to fall do I retreat to my assigned tent, small and cozy enough, more so than I’d expect, really. But even as I lay in the small cot draped in warm furs, I cannot sleep, the coming battle working my mind into a storm.</p><p>In the hour before dawn, the Illyrian legion will take to the skies and fly south, to join High Lord Tarquin’s army, preferably before the carnage begins. And I won’t be a part of it.</p><p>Cassian informed me of that with swift, calm words, informed me that while he does not doubt my skill, I do not have any formal Illyrian training, and I understood. I can’t expect to seamlessly blend with their style, my swift lethality too different to do so, so I didn’t argue. But to soothe the wound to my pride, he informed me that if everything goes to shit, I’m more than welcome to come and blow up some lungs. He was eager to see it, actually.</p><p>It’s not my lack of fighting that’s leaving me sleepless though, or the thought of fighting. But the thought of Azriel and my friends being out there while I’m not, fighting while I watch. I’ll be watching with Feyre and Mor, keeping them safe from that hill overlooking the battle, but still. The thought of watching Rhys, Cass and Azriel braving the danger unnerves me to my core, especially that last one.</p><p>I could lose him before I’ve even had him, and maybe that’s exactly why he hasn’t dared get too close, fearing the heartache should things go wrong.</p><p>I don’t think it’d make a difference. The severing of a mating bond—solidified or not—destroys a person. Pain would have been the outcome no matter how we went about this.</p><p>With the light of dawn approaching, perhaps a couple hours away, and my mind still sleepless, I make a choice, one that will either humiliate me, or not, and I accept either outcome.</p><p>Plucking a small feather from my right wing—one of the many small ones that coats the limb—and grabbing a thin bit of leather binding, I let the faint glow of my stored light illuminate what I’m doing, crafting, and once I deem it done, I rise, wrapping my heavy cloak around me and head for his tent, following the string of the bond to find my way there.</p><p> </p><p>~O~</p><p> </p><p>I hear him inside once I arrive, and with his tent flap tied closed, I enter the dimly lit space by bending instead, using what remains of my reserves to do it, and the faint faelight inside. He doesn’t startle as I take shape in there, as if he knew I was coming, which he probably did.</p><p>In the silence that hangs between us, I watch him, still clad in his heavy armor as he sharpens his brutal Illyrian blade, a helmet of dark metal resting beside him on the small bench. Gulping, I ready to say what I’ve already gone over in my head plenty of times, yet still find difficult.</p><p>“I have something for you” I begin softly, my voice nearly devoured by the winter winds outside. Azriel pauses his sharpening and looks to me. “A gift” His head tilts to the side, and his hands move the blade away, leans it against the left side of the bench, before the raven-feathered helmet.</p><p>I wet my wind whipped lips and take a step deeper into the space, opening my palm to look down at my meek little trinket.</p><p>“It’s… When Seraphim go to war, we…” I stumble for words, trip over what I’ve planned to say. Deciding to forgo the lengthy explanation, I decide to just ask him. “Will you let me braid you?” His brows raise ever so slightly. “Nothing big, just…” I hold up the feather bound leather band. “It’s a token of luck” He watches the snow-white feather for a moment, then to my wings, making the correlation in his head.</p><p>A piece of me tied to him as he fights, a part of me there with him through every kill and injury.</p><p>After a time of motionless silence, he nods, so faintly I hardly catch it, and I take a deep centering breath before approaching, even if the presence of his scent undoes the calming effect. It’s only worrying today, knowing this moment might be the last I see of him.</p><p>It makes my body tremble as I sit down at his right—no matter how I try to leash it—my eyes scanning the silky strands of his midnight hair, forging a design I figure to be subtle enough for his taste.</p><p>He doesn’t move a fraction as I reach up to gather a section of his hair, doesn’t seem to even breathe as I begin the careful process of weaving it together, all while adding more as I go along, as evenly as possible. His wings tremble though, rustle as a nail of mine scrapes along his scalp, and while I slowly work this thin little braid around the arch of his ear—firmly pressed against his scalp—his right wing stretches out and bends around my frame, never touching me, but encasing me in his radiating warmth.</p><p>Ending the braid just behind his eat, I carefully tie the thin leather band to the end of it, weaving it into the construction itself to make sure it holds firmly, and as I pull back my hands, that small little feather of mine dangles behind his ear like an earring.</p><p>I lower my hands back to my lap, and Azriel’s Siphon-jeweled hand reaches up to trail a finger along the thin little weaving, all along its arch, until finally settling on the feather, twirling it between his thumb and index for a moment, feeling the texture.</p><p>Then he looks at me, looks so deeply into my eyes I feel he finds my soul, and that hand that once trailed the braid reaches out to my cheek, rough yet comfortable against my skin. I’m left stunned, mesmerized by his eyes, drowning in the golden glow of them.</p><p>When he tips my head upwards, eyes flicking down towards my lips, my breath catches in my throat, my heart jolting in my chest. But he does not lean in, not in the way I expected him to.</p><p>Much like this morning, he bends down to settle a kiss at my brow, this one lingering for longer, his hand at my cheek keeping me solid throughout it—not that I’d run had it not been. No, I just close my eyes and sigh, able to take in the warm and soft feel of his lips against my cool skin this time, to bask in the goosebumps and shivers it instills, my breath quivering in their wake.</p><p>It’s a thank you, a wordless thank you, but also a goodbye, a bittersweet bit of affection that fills my heart with life all while tearing it to shreds. But as traitorous tears prickle my eyes, lining them with silver, I order them not to fall, order myself to stay strong, convince myself that he will be fine, that with Jurian’s information, we will end this swiftly and brutally.</p><p>I will see him again, and not as a mangled bit of meat on a gory battlefield.</p><p>I will not allow any other future than the one in which he lives.</p><p>As he pulls those lips away, his forehead takes it’s place, lingering against mine as he breathes, every breath slow and controlled.</p><p>And much too soon, he completely pulls away, his wing uncoiling from around me and his body turning away to gather his sword and helmet. He stands, shadows trailing his every move as he sheathes his blade and steps out into the tent, seemingly preparing to leave, to make sure everything is in order before our departure. But before he does, I find the strength to speak.</p><p>“Don’t die” It’s not a request, but a demand.</p><p>He turns from his pointed assessment of his helmet, so pointed I feel like he’s using it as a leash, to stop himself from coming back to the fur-lined bench of his I still sit atop, feel no inclination to leave any time soon, my legs too mushy to hold my weight.</p><p>“<em>Don’t </em>die” A plea, and a promise, one I hope he understands the weight of.</p><p>The only answer he grants me is a smile, then he’s gone like mist on the wind.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>When I imagined this last scene my only thought was. YES. So I did it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I flew in the back of the legion, a shapeless phantom at their flank as Rhys cloaked us all—the entire legion—bound to descend on Hybern in a reveal both intended to intimidate and surprise the opposing force enough to give us a starting edge.</p><p>It still bothers me to not be a part of the fighting, but after Adriata, how drained it left me, I understand why my strength is something best reserved for worst case scenarios. If I go charging into this chaos without the Illyrian training as Cassian said, I’m more likely to die than do any good.</p><p>So when Mor and Feyre land on the tree-covered hill overlooking the lush plains soon to be stained red, I force myself to be content to watch, to observe and watch out for any surprises, make sure Tarquin’s forces are where they should be, closing in form behind.</p><p>I force myself to be numb, to the best if my abilities.</p><p>The intimidation act works, Hybern left momentarily surprised as the dark army descends upon them, along with the land-bound Darkbringers. Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel are spread out across the front line, amongst the shields of red and blue and green, marked by those dark raven-winged helmets in a sea of smooth ones. All of them, ready to face the hoard resuming their approach, having regained their footing.</p><p>In their wake, plumes of smoke mark their path of destruction, and I silently wish all of Hybern’s army a swift but painful death.</p><p>Neither of us say a word as we watch, watch Cassian beat the ever living shit out of the weaker left flank, crimson power either hitting its mark or bouncing off shields. Where shields hold out, no matter our side’s attempts to shatter them, Rhys and Azriel take care of them, darkness and cobalt ripping them apart as surely as their blades shred their enemies. What manages to slip past the Illyrians, the Darkbringers take care off, quickly and precisely.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for the field to grow into a muddy pit of death, a pit gleaming in the morning sun as the solid Illyrian lines push Hybern’s forces back further and further, towards that narrow river. Once Cassian manages to disband the left flank, the rest of Hybern’s force descend into a panic, all except one male, seated atop a horse. A commander</p><p>I watch as Cassian locks him as his target, and while all my senses scream at me to keep an eye on Azriel, I can’t help but watch as he tears his way through soldier after soldier, ramming his way through foe after foe in his pursuit of that commander.</p><p>I smirk as the commander realizes what’s coming his way, what unstoppable force of nature has him locked on target, watch him desperately search for a better weapon.</p><p>While Azriel fights with swiftness and fluidity with the help of his shadows—more aligned with my own style, though still distinctly Illyrian—Cassian is the prime example of an Illyrian warrior. A force of brute strength that nothing can tame, a being born for the battlefield, born to pain the soil red.</p><p>To think that this is the male who couldn’t handle seeing me draped in the guise of a male. Who laughs and jokes and teases people to his heart’s content.</p><p>He reminds me of Jaxon, in that way.</p><p>My breath catches as I watch the commander throw that found spear of his, but Cassian braces for it, takes the spear right right to his round shield and hardly even quivers at the impact. Then he sheathes both blade and shield to his back, picking up another of Hybern’s spears, hurling it with such precision I’m almost jealous.</p><p>And despite the distance between he and the commander, it hits home, flinging the male off of his horse at the impact. By the time he’s hit the ground, Cassian’s there, finishing the job with his blade.</p><p>The army flees, makes a break for the river, to cross, only to find Tarquin’s forces waiting on the other side, just as ordered, just as planned.</p><p>With Hybern surrounded, what was previously a decently even field becomes an all out slaughter in our favor. The situation is familiar, a little too familiar, but I shove it down and slip my mind to Azriel, to see how he’s doing. He’s busy killing, so I don’t make myself known, but I watch, watch for injuries, for any sign that he’s hurt, even if the bond has yielded nothing of the sort and would have had anything been grave.</p><p>He’s just bloody and muddy, drenched in countless of Fae’s blood, and while I cannot see his face well due to the helmet—see much of him at all—I glimpse the pure white of my feather for just a heartbeat, dangling behind his ear.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for it to end then, Hybern soldiers surrendering one after the other as the sun reaches higher in the sky, hours since all this began.</p><p>Rhys seems to let Tarquin decide what to do with the surrendered soldiers, this being his land and all, and I manage to pick out the male from the bunch eventually, and watch as he considers his options.</p><p>With the flick of his wrist, his decision seems to be no mercy.</p><p>I don’t hear the screaming, eyes cast into the field as they are, but I see them beg, surely offering to yield information in exchange of a few more moments to live. They’re hauled off for questioning, then Tarquin reaches out a hand at the remaining soldiers, and I watch as he drowns them on land.</p><p> </p><p>~O~</p><p> </p><p>The Illyrian’s war-camp is ordered to be moved here rather than those mountains in the Winter Court, and while I long to see him—to just glimpse him for a second—I focus on helping the move instead, aiding the rebuilding here as supplies are winnowed over in bursts.</p><p>As I work, I hear the whispers between the younger Illyrians, of that spear Cassian threw, how he’d cut down soldiers like stalks of wheat. Enalius, they compare him to, a name I do not recognize, but will make sure to educate myself on once we return. I assume them to be some praised warrior though.</p><p>I end up in the healers tent eventually, helping mend wounds varying from muddy shallow cuts risking infection and gutted stomach. During the latter of which I only lend aid to the more experienced healers, helping them by holding the important bits in while they work their magic to seal the rips in flesh. I stay there well into the evening, until a gentle tug at the rib above my heart stops me in my tracks, the bucket of clean water forgotten in my hands.</p><p>I feel it again, and my eyes snap in a direction, in <em>his</em> direction.</p><p>There’s nothing urgent about it, but the request is clear.</p><p>
  <em> Come here.</em>
</p><p>I give the refilled bucket to the right healer and move to leave, feeling drained but not physically, not like Adriata, my exhaustion that of mental and magical sort. Even so, I follow the pale string of moonlight and swirling shadow to what I assume is his tent and step inside.</p><p>The space reeks of blood and death and sweat, but Azriel doesn’t seem to care, has made an attempt to clean himself, like his hands and face, but not much else, the majority of his armor still a muddy mess. His helmet has been cleaned though, gleaming in the faelight as it rests on the right side of his desk, those raven feathers gleaming like razor-blades.</p><p>There’s not a glimpse of the smile he left me with as he looks up at me, the cold ice of battle wrapped tightly over his features, but my own is not much better, the embarrassingly flustered female I’d been this morning replaced by a solid sheet of calm collect, ready for whatever it is he seeks of me.</p><p>“We need to find the rest of his army” He begins coolly, his first words to me in a long time, I realize, even before this battle.</p><p>But Azriel wasn’t wrong when he said he doesn’t need to resort to poetry. His silence is as loud as Cassian’s booming voice, if you just listen.</p><p>“I’m at your service” I answer with equal calm, and Azriel motions at a bench just on his right, behind where he sits mulling over a map, papers. I take the hint and have a seat, leaning back with a sigh and closing my eyes. “Anywhere I should start?” He’s silent for a moment.</p><p>“Spring Court” South it is, then.</p><p>“I’ll tell you if I find anything” And so I’m gone, not bothering to keep a foot in myself as I fling myself out into the world, searching for the other parts of Hybern’s forces throughout the lush yet ravaged land of the Spring Court.</p><p>I find nothing. Not a glimpse of Hybern, only the destruction he’s left behind. I assume he’s warded himself from me, but why ward himself now and not ward this army we just faced? He’s planning something, and not knowing what unnerves me enough to keep searching, even as the sun dips dangerously low on the horizon.</p><p>A group of what I assume to be spies working for Azriel are stood before his desk once I reemerge, none even so much as looking at me. Having learned since last time, I assume. And the slight flare to Azriel’s right wing is enough of a threat to keep them from even considering a glance as their spymaster gives careful instructions on what I assume is physical expeditions to find what even our combined powers seem unable to.</p><p>I stretch my neck a fraction, having gone stiff after this lengthy time of stillness, and the audible crack it causes grants me not only Azriel’s, but the team of spies’ attention.</p><p>Azriel’s brow lifts in silent question, and I shake my head, prompting him to look forward again. His spies quickly look back at him, but with how Azriel’s shadow’s flare, I’m sure he’s keenly aware where they were looking.</p><p>He makes quick work of dispatching them, and only once they’ve left the tent—the flap shut behind them—does he seem to relax a fraction, his wings folding back in to rest idly against his back.</p><p>“He’s warded wherever he or his army is from my sight, I can’t find anything” I provide into the silence, and Azriel nods, his posture shifting to rest his chin on his hand as he assesses the map, elbow perched on the table.</p><p>“My shadows find nothing either” A predicament, a bad one in active war, but if we can’t find anything, then we can only hope the physical spies do. Even just a trace to go off of is invaluable.</p><p>“There’s nothing we can do but wait right now, then” He hums, begrudgingly.</p><p>His attention snaps to me as I rise, stretching my limbs after the lengthy time stationary, and joint after joint pops pleasantly, prompting a hum from my lips. Azriel doesn’t seem too pleased by the pops though, a clear flicker of discomfort brushing down the bond. He only speaks once I make to leave, maybe fly to get my blood pumping again.</p><p>“Where are you going” This time it’s calmer, not like the first time he blurted the words upon seeing me going somewhere, and I turn to look back at him, make a point of scanning his muddy and bloody self. A thought brushes my mind, changes my plan.</p><p>“To get a bucket” I state calmly, almost too calmly for what it is I have in mind, but the numbness of battle—even if I was not a part of the fray—is coursing through me, but not completely consuming the glimmers of myself still lingering there, trying to break through the surface again.</p><p>“Why?” I sniff the air, cringe just a little.</p><p>“You stink” A snort, quick and sharp, brings some light into those bleak hazel eyes.</p><p>“And you’re to wash me?”</p><p>“You’re clearly not doing it yourself” I turn to go out into the world again, to use what remains of the light to mask myself as a High Fae as I search for a couple buckets and some cloth.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm not the best at writing war, it can be messy. But you know what? War is messy, and so is Azriel. I think you'll enjoy the next one.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. Dangerous Game</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s still muddy when I return, as if he took my words as a challenge and made no move to clean himself. What he <em>has</em> cleaned is the desk, now free of everything but his helmet. As his eyes set on me with my pair of buckets and strips of cloth, his eyes sparkle with words he keeps unsaid.</p><p><em>Go ahead</em>, they seem to say. <em>Clean me</em>. I accept the challenge with my chin held high, striding for his desk and setting down my supplies on the vacated space, surely the reason it’s cleared at all.</p><p>Sly prat.</p><p>I don’t yield a thing as I pour over some of the water form one bucket to the other, using the fraction of water to soak a cloth. As I’m squeezing out the majority of the water, I give his armored self an assessing glance.</p><p>“Am I to undress you as well, Shadowsinger?” Something dark and mischievous sparkles in his eyes. It’s existence means I’ve already won this game, that I’ve done something to ward off the mental ghosts of battle, if only a fraction. It might bring me far out of my comfort zone with him, but the boundaries have been stretching for a while, and nothing about this scares me. It's thrilling.</p><p>“If I unsummon my armor, it remains uncleaned” Ah, I see.</p><p>“Well, I guess I’ll just have to wipe you down as you are, then” I hop up to sit on the desk, motioning for him to come closer, and he heeds my request, scooting his chair close until he’s seated before me, a leg of mine framing either side of him.</p><p>His arms stay casually laid over the armrests of the chair as I begin, starting with his neck, his shoulders, slowly working my way down the scaly armor along his arm, taking extra care when I reach his hand before moving over to the next arm, continuously soaking the rag in more water or switching altogether as I work. His black armor doesn’t get shiny, not nearly, but the worst of it all comes off, and Azriel just watches me while I work, heeding my every wordless command as I lift an arm to better reach.</p><p>Not once does he speak, not once does he comment or tease. In fact, the mischief I saw in his eyes—the challenge—has been subdued into what looks like pure contentment, as if having me help him wash is the equivalent to the time of his life.</p><p>It’s flattering if anything, and by this point the numbness in me has been snuffed out enough by his lasting presence to cause a blush to stain my cheeks, but he doesn’t comment on that either, and I don’t comment on the darker shade to his cheeks either, or the blown wide state of his pupils.</p><p>Surprisingly though, his heart is content and calm, much like the look in his eyes. And my own—while a little speedy—is generally unbothered. I’m not nervous about what I’m doing, just excited, thrilled to be allowed this privilege, if that makes sense. To be the one to do this pleases some primal part of me, instills this clear female satisfaction to know I’m the one taking care of him and no one else.</p><p>It also <em>excites </em>me, but it’s glimmer is secondary, faint.</p><p>Moving down his armored chest, I find scratches and scars along the metal whose origins I decide I do not care for right now as I move down along the panes of his stomach. I stop somewhere above his navel though, not <em>that</em> daring. Yet.</p><p>Well aware his back remains very dirty compared to his front, I motion for him to turn around, and while he looks like he’d rather just sit there, he turn in the chair with some effort, his body tired, more so than he's admitting to himself, I think. And so, with his armored back unveiled before me, wings spread out to grant me reach, I begin.</p><p>His weapons have already been unequipped, laid in a pile in the corner of the tent, decently cleaned, so I don’t have to worry about that as I cram some water out of the cloth, letting it sipper down along his back, bringing some of the mud and blood with it. Then I proceed with the manual labor of this, carefully moving the cloth down his armored back, between the joints of his wings.</p><p>He hisses as I <em>accidentally</em> brush the back of my hand against a section near the base of it, the wing tensing, flaring.</p><p>“Sorry” I say innocently. “Fair’s fair” He sighs, head falling limply before him. Only wicked amusement flutters down the bond from him.</p><p>I avoid them form there, scared he’ll retaliate by returning the favor once I’m done here, and soon enough his back is as clean as I’ll get it, and while his wings are in the need of a wash as well, I don't dare suggest it.</p><p>“There, much better” I conclude, leaning back in my seat atop his desk, an arm working as support. Azriel turn in his seat again, looking up at me with those content eyes—though glimmering with some dark mischief now.</p><p>“And my legs?” He ask, singular brow raised, a faint smirk playing on his lips.</p><p>“I can hardly reach from here, can I” I state calmly, rinsing out the cloth.</p><p>“But I’m not clean” He continues, and I cast him a narrow glance, forcing a gentle smirk to my lips, even as my heart raises at the mere thought of what I’m about to say, blood flickering with heat.</p><p>“I suppose I’ll kneel, then” His eyes widen a fraction, cheeks blazing. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from losing it, from giving in to the jittery feeling in my body. “Scoot” I order, and he obeys.</p><p>Slipping down from the table, I take the chance to throw out the filthy water from one of the buckets, using the moment to compose myself as well before returning to place it all on the ground before his chair, my heart hammering out of my chest as I stand before him, motioning for him to rise. He does, and as he does, I sink down to one knee, hands lightly trembling as I continue this torturous bit of fun.</p><p>Because I realize that it is. It’s fun. New, thrilling, exciting, but most importantly, fun. It’s fun to hear his heart jolt as I move down his leg, fun to hear his sharp intakes of breath as I work the insides of his legs, fun to instill these reactions in him, to break that solid composure of his like he does mine. And I do it one stroke at a time, from his hips to the tips of his feet, only avoiding his front because that feels too far and I’m not ready for that kind of play yet. Especially not here where anyone could technically walk in on us.</p><p>That fact adds another layer of thrill to this little game.</p><p>Satisfied with my work, I sit back and look up at him, almost knocked clean to the floor by the sheer weight of his gaze, heavy with darkness—with desire—and as I take a subtle though deep breath through my nose, I get a whiff of it. His <em>scent</em>, mixing with the scent of death and decay, but there, overwhelming and potent.</p><p>It sets me alight in a heartbeat, takes the glimmer this whole thing awoke and throws oil at it.</p><p>“Are you clean enough, Spymaster? Or do you want me to wash your wings as well?” A taunt, maybe a stupid one, but this game is much too fun—this dangerous playfulness too thrilling to give up—and I know he’s enjoying it too. A lot.</p><p>Said wings flare out, his chest heaving a long, deep breath, and all I do is wait, a coy smile on my lips as I gaze up at him through snow-white lashes.</p><p>“There’s some dirt stuck under my armor” He says instead, voice rough and dark, sending shivers down my spine.</p><p>“Then why are you still wearing it?” A dangerous game we play, this one. A thrilling, dangerous game I don’t want to see end.</p><p>His Siphons flare, then his armor retracts, leaving him clad in a loose dark tunic and lose black pants. All that’s left of his armor the two Siphon-adorned gantlets.</p><p>I can’t help but glance down, my mouth going dry as I glimpse the unmistakable, and I try not to tremble as I rise to my feet before him, his height still towering over my own. I find what he means, find the line of dirt and grime at his neck—where it slipped past his defenses—and lifting my buckets back to the desk, wetting a cloth, I take a step closer, placing a hand on his shoulder before moving to wipe it off of him. His voice stops me.</p><p>“You’ll soil my shirt if you do that” I pause, consider, the challenge clear in both his voice and his eyes once I dare take a peak at them.</p><p>“So I’m to undress you <em>now</em>, huh” A thrill similar to my own dances in his darkened yet glowing hazel eyes. He makes no move to back down, or push me to do it.</p><p>Letting me decide how we play.</p><p>That he’s a willing participant at all after adamantly avoiding me for all this time is a miracle in itself, one I don’t gloss over.</p><p>Elain was right, tugging on the bond changed our path, and while we still need to talk about things at some point, with words, this is fine for now. This is fun, we’re both having fun. I won’t ruin this for the sake of a heavy conversation like that. Not when the heaviness of war is already weighing us down.</p><p>Lowering my eyes to the buttons at the front of his tunic, I reach up and undo them, revealing little by little what looks like swirling dark tattoos, nearly identical to those I’ve seen on Cassian when he’s refused to wear a shirt to practice.</p><p>Illyrian in nature, I assume.</p><p>“You’ll have to undo the back buttons yourself” I state calmly, done with the line of buttons at his front, reaching to the middle of his pecs. Azriel wordlessly complies, and once he’s done as I asked, I let my hands slip down to the hem of his tunic, my own burning reaction to this game flaring as I slip beneath it, to solid muscle and warm skin, slowly guiding the dark fabric up and up, until he tears it off of him himself, helping me out just a little, perhaps because he can't quite stand staying as impossibly still as he has been.</p><p>The feather behind his ear sways as he tosses the shirt to the desk, the pure white preserved and clean compared to everything else, as if he shielded it all throughout the battle, or the helmet protected it well.</p><p>Despite the bare chest before me—the warm golden skin laid bare for me to see—my focus remains on that little trinket of mine, my free hand reaching up to cradle it between my thumb and index, the sight of it on him satisfying, pleasing. A silent claiming. Subtle, but there. I wonder if it’s the reason he’s daring enough to do this, if it worked as a last bit of bridging between us—that tender moment this morning.</p><p>I’d like to believe it did.</p><p>I let the hand trail down, settle at his shoulder as I reach my hand up to finally wipe that bit of grime away, ever gentle as I work the cloth against his skin.</p><p>He radiates a mix of contentment and desire, but the former is somehow stronger, at least when it comes to which controls his actions. A painful thought brushes my mind, and I gulp.</p><p>I don’t think he’s been cared for like this a lot before. It only makes me value this moment more. So much more.</p><p>Getting rid of the last bit of that necklace of grime, I lower the cloth and look up into his eyes, hopeful they will relay the question on their own.</p><p>They seem successful, as Azriel’s hands take mine and snatch the cloth for himself, surprising me when he dips it in the clean bucket and brings it back up to my face, gently wiping it clean. I knew my work splattered some on me, but…</p><p>I accept it, close my eyes and let him work that soft bit of fabric against my skin, only opening them once it retreats.</p><p>He’s smiling, his eyes till lust-filled, but his face softened by a smile, one so real and clear it takes my breath away.</p><p>“You should go” He mumbles, his tone apologetic, but insistent. I take a deep breath, appalled by the thought of returning to my own lonely tent, but able to figure why he’s asking it of me.</p><p>“I’ll get back to searching tomorrow” I mumble back, my eyes drifting to the swirls of black ink snaking like shadows across his chest, shoulders, probably back as well. “I’ll let you know if I find anything” I continue, a daring finger of mine trailing one of said swirls, just above his heart, the vibration of it within traveling over to my own body.</p><p>“If you drift fully, I want you here” A gentle request, one I accept with a nod. “If you leave camp and need help… Just call for me” I nod again, lifting my eyes back to his face.</p><p>Weren’t he so damn tall, it’d be trivially easy to kiss him right now. I sure as hell want to, at least.</p><p>I think he considers it too, his eyes flicking down to my lips for a moment before he repeats his initial request.</p><p>“You should go” This time it sounds more like he’s convincing himself rather than trying to persuade me.</p><p>I take that step back—however it hurts to part from him—move for the exit and cast a barrier of air around me, to hide the evidence of, well, everything and nothing. I only cast him one last glance before I go, finding him stood where I left him, his tunic in his hands, ready to be tugged on again. I smile his way, not sure whether he catches it, then disappear into the night beyond, using the little light I soaked up during my stay in his tent to mask my wings at the least.</p><p>Once I settle in the darkness of my tent—on rather than under the furs, my leathers switched for a sleeping tunic and pants in this heat—I feel the gentle caress of cool shadows brushing along my body, relieving me from the heavy summer heat that lingers even through the night here. Their soothing whispers slowly lull me to sleep once I’ve managed to wind down from the encounter, but when I do sleep, it haunts my dreams</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter was supposed to be sweet. I realized quickly that it wasn't an option, so this happened.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. Infuriating</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>For the next three days, I spend the hours between dawn and </span>
  <span>dusk searching, looking across ever square meter of Prythian in search of Hybern’s army—his next move—either from Azriel’s tent as requested, or bent into the light and far away from camp, trying to figure out if my own eyes might glimpse it.</span>
</p>
<p>Each search is futile. And it’s absolutely infuriating.</p>
<p>
  <span> Azriel agrees, his own searching and scout-parties yielding nothing. </span>
  <span>N</span>
  <span>ot as much as a whisper. It leaves us to brood together in his office in the evenings, that playfulness and silent flirtation misted by our predicament as our concern grows thicker by the day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Something’s wrong, we both know it. Not knowing </span>
  <span>
    <em>what</em>
  </span>
  <span> is slowly carving us hollow. I don’t have it in me to fill that hollowness with anything either, can’t bring myself to pretend everything’s fine. Not that I pretended that night, just shelved the issue for the moment.</span>
</p>
<p>Shelving the issue isn’t an option anymore.</p>
<p>
  <span>When I’m not mulling over our predicament—taking the briefest break from it to give myself time to think about something else, to maybe find another angle to view things from—I’m helping the healers mend the wounded, until an idea happens to brush my mind and I return to Azriel’s tent to </span>
  <span>inform him of it and </span>
  <span>spear out </span>
  <span>to</span>
  <span> test it.</span>
</p>
<p>The first day I come to him directly from the healers’ ward, having made the mistake of not washing my hands first. Azriel immediately scents the blood and treats me to a watered down version of what I gave him the night before, taking gentle care as he wipes my hands clean while I tell him about my idea.</p>
<p>
  <span> The first </span>
  <span>day involves </span>
  <span>footsteps, to search for footsteps along muddy banks or anything resembling a trail.</span>
</p>
<p>I try it, and fail.</p>
<p>The second day I think to observe the animals, see how they are reacting, if they are seeing things we can't.</p>
<p>Again, it fails. Mainly because all animals seem to have fled the land.</p>
<p>
  <span> The third day I spear really high into the sky and look down at Prythian from above, to search for any trampled earth an army the si</span>
  <span>z</span>
  <span>e we’re expecting should leave behind.</span>
</p>
<p>It fails as miserably as the rest of my ideas.</p>
<p>
  <span> The only bit of condolence Azriel </span>
  <span>gives</span>
  <span> me </span>
  <span>regarding</span>
  <span> my repeated failures </span>
  <span>during those initial three days is </span>
  <span>that my ideas </span>
  <span>in </span>
  <span>themselves are </span>
  <span>clever. </span>
  <span>And I think he attempts to quell my growing irritation with such sweet-talk because it's genuinely </span>
  <span>starting</span>
  <span> to </span>
  <span>unsettle</span>
  <span> him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> But the fact that none of </span>
  <span>my ideas</span>
  <span> work means Hybern is cleverer, and </span>
  <span>that fact only makes me angrier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the forth day of nothing, there are no wounded to heal, and no outlandish </span>
  <span>idea</span>
  <span> to execute </span>
  <span>in an attempt to</span>
  <span> get us moving again. So when Cassian orders the soldiers to dig trenches, I join them, </span>
  <span>t</span>
  <span>aking the form of an Illyrian grunt—to Cassian’s dismay once he realizes. I ignore him.</span>
</p>
<p>I dig to ward off the frustration, to get rid of the restlessness in my bones from all this sitting around, but coincidentally, when I notice my boots looking unnaturally clean amongst the mess of mud I stand in, I realize something.</p>
<p><span> Wards or illusions can’t </span><span>inherently </span>get dirty.</p>
<p>If Hybern has warded themselves to mask us from them in all sense of the term, then the wards are strong, intricate. But something Hybern could have forgone to consider is that when dirt or rain or downpour of any kind passes through wards that aren’t designed to replicate such events, it leaves the area strangely clear, can make an area appear clear of snow in the middle of a blizzard.</p>
<p>
  <span> When I go to Azriel and tell him about my </span>
  <span>new </span>
  <span>idea, he looks torn between laughing at the absurdity of </span>
  <span>
    <em>how</em>
  </span>
  <span> I came up with this and in awe at the fact that I did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even so, my growing madness yields nothing, even though I bend out to manipulate some rain clouds in an attempt to make the downpour unveil something.</span>
</p>
<p>I return to Azriel more annoyed than ever, my scowl deeper than I’ve ever allowed it as I sit on the furred bench to the right of his desk, chin resting on my hand, elbow on my knee.</p>
<p>
  <span> Mercifully, Azriel doesn’t comment, leaves me to sort out my anger on my own, only supplying me with a bowl of food come </span>
  <span>dusk</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>I barely touch it.</p>
<p>
  <span>Azriel doesn’t force me to eat it either, nor does he really touch his own bowl.</span>
</p>
<p>It’s on the fifth day that everything goes to hell.</p>
<p>
  <span> I find them, a legion grazed by clear </span>
  <span>sunlight</span>
  <span>, marching up along the border between Summer and Autumn, straight for the Winter Court. I spear back t</span>
  <span>o</span>
  <span> my body faster than I’ve ever </span>
  <span>have</span>
  <span>, practically falling off of the bench as I slam back into myself, narrowly saved by my own hands. Azriel’s on his feet in a heartbeat, at my side in another.</span>
</p>
<p>“I found them” I breathe. “Marching up between Summer and Autumn” Lifting my head, I find utter shock in Azriel’s eyes, almost breaking through to his stoic face. Almost.</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” I push myself up onto my knees.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Am I </span>
  <span>
    <em>sure</em>
  </span>
  <span>?” I snap, and he flinches. “Go have a look for </span>
  <span>
    <em>yourself</em>
  </span>
  <span>, you </span>
  <span>prat</span>
  <span>” He’s gone in a wisp of shadow, those that linger whispering of apology.</span>
</p>
<p>I sigh and rub at my brow, ashamed of my little snap at him, considering he’s been so patient with my frustration these past days, but I’m also keenly aware that we have bigger issues to deal with than my souring mood.</p>
<p>That army… Oh gods.</p>
<p>What are they even doing? What do they stand to gain by doing this? Do they intend to knock our allies in Winter out of the picture? It feels terribly short sighted for someone whose been hiding for nearly a week, to just send out an unwarded army like this.</p>
<p>
  <span>I have risen to my feet once Azriel returns, breathless and wide-eyed, as if the shadows failed him and forced him to fly for a time, or he got so enraged by the sight of that army, completely passing us by, that he had to fly for a time just to keep from shifting down and slaughtering them himself.</span>
</p>
<p>I’m glad to see the feather still holding firmly to his braid though, the brief moment I acknowledge it before Azriel reaches out to me, requesting my hand, and I take it, letting him shift us to Feyre and Rhys’ personal war-tent.</p>
<p>We relay the information swiftly and efficiently, but both of us are still unable to find a reason for this sudden turn of events. But Kallias and Viviane have been warned, Azriel says, which is good at least.</p>
<p>
  <span>What ensues is a discussion amongst everyone present in the camp, between Night and Summer courtiers alike, and it goes on for hours.</span>
</p>
<p>To leave and take care of that army, leaving this camp unguarded, perhaps playing into Hybern’s plans. Not an option, at least no one anyone likes. But everyone agrees that leaving that army to keep marching isn’t either. There’s no telling how far it could go, how much destruction it could cause. We can’t split our forces either, we don’t have the soldiers to spare.</p>
<p>Then Varian speaks, the male from the Summer Court who is rather fond of our dear Amren, from what I’ve gathered.</p>
<p>He dismisses everyone, every captain and general present at the meeting, leaving only his sister, Tarquin and our Circle.</p>
<p>
  <span> “We march north—</span>
  <span>
    <em>and</em>
  </span>
  <span> we stay” He’s speaking my kind of madness. I like this male. </span>
  <span>Rhys lifts a brow, Cassian frowns. Varian jabs a finger at the map we’re stood around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Spin a glamour—a good one. So that if anyone walks by here, they see and hear and smell an army. Put whatever spell in place to repel them from actually coming up to it. But let Hybern’s eyes report that we are still here. That we choose to stay here” The fact that Azriel doesn’t even look surprised either means he’s too wrapped up in serious mode, or that I’ve desensitized him by my own mad plans over the past five days.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “While we march north under a sight shield” Cassian murmurs, rubbing his jaw as his eyes drift to me. “Or an illusion” It seems like a question, asking if I’d be able to perform such a feat, hiding an entire army. And I nod, a little daunted by the sheer amount of bending it would require—the focus—but not enough to scare me off. If it helps preserve our magics, then I will do what I must. “It could work” He says, then casts a grin at Varian. “If you ever get sick of all that sunshine, you can come play with us in Velaris” </span>
  <span>Even though Varian frowns, there’s a glimmer of something playing in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>Tarquin look to Rhys.</p>
<p>“You could make such a deception?” Rhys nods and winks at Feyre.</p>
<p>“With a little help from my mate”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. Deception</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The glamouring takes all day, but the end result is so convincing it’s scary, granted you don’t look too close.</p>
<p>
  <span> The next morning, we move, hidden by the vast illusion I craft around us to help preserve our High Lords’ power. Or, well, Rhysand’s considering Tarquin uses most of his on winnowing </span>
  <span>our earthbound troops</span>
  <span> after the Illyrian legion, </span>
  <span>their slowness something I’m forced to take into consideration as I warp the light around us to pass right through, to leave nothing but clear skies and unoccupied land in our wake</span>
  <span>. Rhys makes up for my lack of scent and sound shields, but that task still drains less than what a full on glamour would have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> As embarrassing as it feels to admit, keeping this illusion up leaves me so out of it </span>
  <span>mentally </span>
  <span>that I’m forced to be </span>
  <span>
    <em>carried</em>
  </span>
  <span> by </span>
  <span>
    <em>Cassian </em>
  </span>
  <span>of all males. </span>
  <span>B</span>
  <span>ecause Azriel’s scouting ahead—</span>
  <span>picking out camp—</span>
  <span>Rhys is too busy looking pretty as the High Lord he is to afford hauling me around, </span>
  <span>and Azriel nearly snarled at the though of some random Illyrian doing it. A winnowing Fae wasn’t an option either, the winnowing bound to result in moments of fault in my work as we pass through the darkness of space by each jump</span>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> But despite that embarrassing little sliver of information, it works, the illusion works, and I even manage to </span>
  <span>illusion the fact that Cassian’s carrying me into nonexistence to spare my dignity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We settle atop a ridge overlooking the valley the army’s marching for, and while the soldiers around me work to set up camp, I continue to maintain the illusion, sat on a rock draped in clear sunlight, barely aware of the world around me. </span>
  <span>If Rhys is still working to keep our scents and sounds hidden, I don’t know, but I assume so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After having let our army rest all day, the opposing force arrives, readying to settle down for the night in the valley bellow—just as Azriel’s report suggested—</span>
  <span>and with heavy rain-clouds looming in the east, and the </span>
  <span>slowly setting </span>
  <span>sun sinking in the west, Rhys </span>
  <span>and Tarquin gather their troops and ready to attack, Rhys soon</span>
  <span> order</span>
  <span>ing</span>
  <span> me </span>
  <span>mind to mind</span>
  <span> to drop the illusion and let Hybern see whose come for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My forcefully straight posture shatters as I let the illusion fall, my hands bracing against my knees as I pant, the sound of distant battle reaching me from the valley bellow as I heave, hazily watching as droplets of red drip from my nose, down onto my leathers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mor</span>
  <span> finds me </span>
  <span>still sat there—head hung before me—and </span>
  <span>offers a hand to help me to my feet. She blanches just a fraction as she beholds what I assume is a bloody mess in the place of my face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> I assure her it’s fine—</span>
  <span>normal</span>
  <span>—wiping the blood off of my face, but really just </span>
  <span>successfully</span>
  <span> smearing</span>
  <span> it across it. </span>
  <span>She provides me with a washcloth to hold against my nose before leading me to the ridge where Nesta and Feyre already stand, observing the battle down bellow.</span>
</p>
<p>What I quickly realize however, is that Hybern was ready for this. Their act of a tired army preparing to settle after a day’s march was a ruse, a big fat lie. One I should have seen.</p>
<p>It was too perfect, for this mass of soldiers to simply appear, too convenient, but we had to act fast and just letting this army go was never an option.</p>
<p>Atop the worry I feel regarding Azriel—whom I didn’t get to even speak with before this started—and the rest of my found family of friends battling down bellow, I begin to worry about the fact that Hybern planned this, worry about what his next move is from here.</p>
<p>As I watch the Darkbringers and their shadows sputtering out, our front lines buckling, I step back form the ridge, return to my rock and fling myself out into the world, even though I’m thoroughly exhausted mentally and paying for my lengthy span of focus from earlier, the blood still staining the cloth Mor gave me, soaking it.</p>
<p>
  <span> If it lasts </span>
  <span>longer than thirty minutes </span>
  <span>from now</span>
  <span>, I’ll start to worry about that. For now though, I circle the battlefield in search of any surprises, any hidden armies waiting to ambush ours down in the valley, using every little trick I thought of the days prior in my search.</span>
</p>
<p>I soon realize that another army coming isn’t our immediate issue, as I watch the front lines breach for a time until Cassian seems to bark loudly and threateningly enough at Kier to get him to fix it.</p>
<p>A worst case scenario is coming, the kind Cassian spoke to me about, and I return to myself and stand, only to be met by extreme dizziness. I curse, remove the cloth from my nose to find it still bleeding and curse some more.</p>
<p>It happens, it’s nothing dangerous, but it’s a sign that I’ve overworked myself, and to have done so right before a time when I’m needed… I wipe my face clean one last time and will my magic to manually heal whatever stubborn blood vessels I’ve breached up there, and while the bleeding stops, the dizziness lingers as I stride to join the other females along the ridge, Mor looking antsy where she shifts form foot to foot, glancing between the fighting and our High Lady.</p>
<p>I agree with her, would rather be down there fighting then stood here watching, but going down there right now could very well be suicide.</p>
<p>Not doing so could mean the death of my newfound family.</p>
<p>
  <span> The thought of losing Azriel now that we’ve finally become </span>
  <span>
    <em>something</em>
  </span>
  <span> stings the worst, but all of it stings. </span>
  <span>E</span>
  <span>very possible death I could face in this war </span>
  <span>stings</span>
  <span>. It stings like being burnt, like my soul being singed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The clouds unleash their rains, turning the battlefield into a muddy mess within moments, and in that mess I watch Faebane come into the picture, doing nothing to our forces magically, but the arrows tipped by the stone have to be managed manually, and some hit their mark, kill.</span>
</p>
<p>Despite everything seeming to be working against us, Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand keep fighting, they have no choice but to do so. The Summer Court holds their own well, managing to spare enough soldiers to help the Darkbringers keep up their wavering front line.</p>
<p>But it’s aid sent too late.</p>
<p>Despite the distance and rain, we all watch with perfect clarity as the line of Darkbringers cave to the onslaught of Hybern’s forces.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Shit” Mor breathes the curse at my left. “</span>
  <span>
    <em>Shit</em>
  </span>
  <span>” She repeats a little louder.</span>
</p>
<p>And shit indeed.</p>
<p>
  <span> Like watching a dam bursting, Hybern’s forces pour through the breach, cleaving Kier’s </span>
  <span>front line</span>
  <span> in half. Cassian’s roar can be heard even from where we stand, enraged and defiant, and moments later he’s soaring through the sky, right into that mess, his crimson magic so dim it hardly shields him, and he ignores whatever order I hear Rhys bark after him, ignores him and just </span>
  <span>
    <em>unleashes</em>
  </span>
  <span> himself on those enemy Fae.</span>
</p>
<p>Had I held any sliver of empathy for our enemy, I would have felt bad. But all I find myself feeling is a mix between terror and satisfaction as I watch Cassian tear those cretin to shreds.</p>
<p>
  <span>With Rhys tired from his glamouring the night before, his lashes of power kill dozen rather than hundreds</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>despite my effort to help preserve his magic</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>and in turn, Hybern’s forces continue to divide ours.</span>
</p>
<p>I need to get in there, I need to get in there and soon. But my head, I—</p>
<p>“Re-form the lines” Mor mutters, beginning to pace, and I step out of her path. “Re-form the damned lines!”</p>
<p>I watch Cassian try, watch with not a meek amount of dread as Azriel lunges into the fray to help him, nothing more than shadows lined in cobalt as he tears his way towards where Cassian is, utterly surrounded by our enemies.</p>
<p>
  <span> I need to go. </span>
  <span>
    <em>I need to go.</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Go now and you die. Calm yourself. </span>
  <span>
    <em>Breathe</em>
  </span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>I shake my head, and the world spins.</p>
<p>Damn it.</p>
<p>“Mother above” Nesta says softly, her dread evident in her voice.</p>
<p>I feel like I might puke because of my own growing fear, or it’s the dizziness, I don’t know. I just know that my attempts to numb myself to the fighting have failed in the wake of my mental disarray, and I am slowly descending into a volatile mess.</p>
<p>“They can fix this” Feyre says, but her fear is just as clear.</p>
<p>And to think this isn’t even all Hybern has coming our way.</p>
<p>
  <span> Red flares in the heart of the battle, leaving a circle of death in its wake. But more push in, an endless hoard even Cassian can’t tackle by himself, not even </span>
  <span>
    <em>Azriel</em>
  </span>
  <span> c</span>
  <span>an</span>
  <span> get through the mess separating them.</span>
</p>
<p>This will end badly, no matter how I turn it in my head.</p>
<p>
  <span> I need to get in there, I need to </span>
  <span>
    <em>fight</em>
  </span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Writing this was messy. Like, I read the section in acowar and tried to figure out how to do this and was just continuously confused by some of the happenings. It was like some slivers of information were missing, the time-markers I need to do this properly. I don't know if it's a language barrier or I'm just blind, but I hope I managed to do this decently well despite it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0044"><h2>44. Worst Case Scenario</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Feyre answers my silent request mere moments later, having dragged both me and Mor away from that ledge, to talk.</p>
<p>“Leave me here, go fight” I am ready to bend out the moment she says the words, but Mor isn’t as easily swayed from her post as I’m inclined to be.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Absolutely not” She says. “</span>
  <span>
    <em>Absolutely not</em>
  </span>
  <span>” Feyre jerks hear head towards the valley.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Go join them, You’re both wasted here. They need you” It’s true, it's very true. “Cassian and Az </span>
  <span>
    <em>need</em>
  </span>
  <span> your help to push back the front lines” Because even Cassian’s deep well of crimson power is beginning to dwindle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Rhys will </span>
  <span>
    <em>kill</em>
  </span>
  <span> me if I agree to leave you here”</span>
</p>
<p>“Rhys will do no such thing, and you know it. He’s got wards around this camp, and I’m not entirely defenseless, you know” I feel like there’s more to this, but I don’t care to look into it. “Go fight. Make those Hybern pricks scream a little” I like the sound of that.</p>
<p>“Help them” Nesta looks away long enough to add, and I see why, see Cassian make another charge into that mess, trying to spook the soldiers back.</p>
<p>“Just—be on your guard. Both of you” Is all Mor says before rushing into her tent, and I mirror her act to leave by unsheathing my blades from my back and sprinting off of the ledge, not trusting my mind to bend me into the fight successfully, not in this gloom.</p>
<p>
  <span> So I soar for Azriel as quickly as I dare, but watch Mor get there first, </span>
  <span>leaving me to </span>
  <span>watch her block a blow that would have been fatal </span>
  <span>had it hit him </span>
  <span>and </span>
  <span>effortlessly</span>
  <span> fall into symbiotic fighting alongside him. </span>
  <span>I don’t let it stop me as I blow a section of muddy earth clear of soldiers with a burst of golden wind, making sure it reaches into their lungs and tears them to shreds while I land, swaying on my feet for just a moment before I compose myself, trucking in my wings tightly.</span>
</p>
<p>I only spare the pair a glance before I begin my unsteady dance of death, cutting at weak-points in armor with steady precision. Groins, armpits, elbows, all to weaken and eventually end their lives, or leave them to bleed out if the crowd’s too thick. It doesn't take long for mud and blood to coat my body.</p>
<p>Only in worst case scenarios do I resort to magic, forcing it into their lungs and tearing them apart from inside, or outright impaling them on spears of air if the situation is dire.</p>
<p>I stick close to Mor and Azriel, but not close enough to disturb their little <em>dance</em>, but once, as I spare them both a glance, I find them in a rather crowded mess on our path towards Cassian, and I help them out by shoving away the worst of their foes, only to pay for my distraction in the form of a shield slammed right into my gut.</p>
<p>I stagger, gasp for breath, but manage to bend out of the situation before the accompanied blade hits it’s mark, stumbling as I reappear a couple paces back, unleashing a burst of wind to give myself a second to breathe, to compose myself.</p>
<p>There’s worry flickering down the bond, in regards to me or Cassian, I don’t know, can’t care to figure out as I resume the killing, following Azriel and Mor’s path of carnage as I too try to get to Cassian through this mess.</p>
<p><span>When we’</span><span>re paces from reaching</span><span> him—after what feels like hours yet minutes all at the same time, full of too many close calls for me to even begin counting—we helplessly watch as a blade cuts its way from his </span>sternum down <span>to his </span>navel<span>, and the world just seems to stop, the </span><span>sound of </span><span>battle quiet into this ringing, only disturbed by the roaring agony escaping Cassian.</span></p>
<p>No.</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>No. </em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> I will </span>
  <span>
    <em>not</em>
  </span>
  <span> go through this again.</span>
</p>
<p>Spreading my wings I soar the rest of the way there—intent on joining Mor and Azriel as they equal times try to hold back the hoard and keep Cassian's bleeding body out of it's stampede—and with a burst of wind upon my landing, I push those closest back enough to relieve them of the issue, for a time.</p>
<p>
  <span> Mor’s face is desperate as she looks to the unconscious male on the muddy ground, Azriel’s a cold mask hiding a blizzard of emotions I feel rolling in my gut, mixing with my own. But I ignore them both, ignore the carnage going on around us as I fall to my knees </span>
  <span>in the mud </span>
  <span>and do </span>
  <span>the only thing I can come to think of at the time.</span>
</p>
<p>I force the golden light in me to try and heal him.</p>
<p>
  <span>But I’m not given time to do it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Estelle!” Azriel’s voice, distressed and urgent, alerts me, and I whirl to find a male charging my way.</span>
</p>
<p>I lift my hand to blast him back, but Mor is there first, cutting him down and rushing to my side, leaving Azriel to maintain the small circle of safety we’ve killed for ourselves on his own.</p>
<p>“We need to get him out of here” Mor pants, eyes darting everywhere, panicked, falling deeper and deeper into its pit.</p>
<p>“If we move him now, we risk doing more harm than good” I answer, equally breathless, my mind a disoriented mess, my stomach ready to heave it’s sliver of contents onto the muddy earth any second.</p>
<p>“We can’t stay either!” A burst of cobalt brushes past us both, killing a few males, but not enough. There are too many.</p>
<p>I scramble for a plan, for something that works, digging through the mess in my head to find it, sure it’s in there somewhere.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Help Azriel, keep me in the clear. I’ll heal the worst of it </span>
  <span>so he might live to see us win this” Mor looks hesitant, but does as I say, joining Azriel in his brutal killing as I scramble to remember how the healers explained to treat this kind of wound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Haphazardly, I will his spilling guts back into his body, realizing his wound is much too big to be mended without risking my own life out here, nor is my mind stable enough to do it right, </span>
  <span>so</span>
  <span> I do the one thing I can think off in favor of truly healing him. I put a barrier of solid air before the wound to keep the guts in and heal the worst of the bleeding, to buy him time while we finish this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> With that done</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>and I’</span>
  <span>ve</span>
  <span> assured myself that the male’s still breathing</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>I join the killing, join Mor and Azriel as we keep the </span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>pace around Cassian’s body free from enemies, working </span>
  <span>together</span>
  <span> to save our friend, and this fight as </span>
  <span>a whole</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> With </span>
  <span>Azriel’s</span>
  <span> killing power dwindling, I watch him kill with shadows alone, watch him command them to wrap around throats until the males have gone </span>
  <span>as </span>
  <span>blue </span>
  <span>as his Siphons, </span>
  <span>lifeless, but my awe has no place on the battlefield, and my sole focus remains on the killing, on keeping my body moving until finally, </span>
  <span>
    <em>finally</em>
  </span>
  <span>, we come out as victorious.</span>
</p>
<p>But if we are truly victors is to be debated, our losses so great I don’t even want to think about it, can’t unless I wish for whatever hope that remains in me to be crushed to smithereens.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Why do I love writing gore and death so much? </p>
<p>This is the last chapter of today, unless situations change.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0045"><h2>45. Repercussions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>What comes next is ugly, very ugly.</span>
</p>
<p>With my magic depleted from the fighting, that shield keeping Cassian’s guts from spilling out has faded, and as Rhys finds us in the mess, he finds Azriel and I both trying our best to keep them in manually.</p>
<p>He helps us haul him back to camp, Mor doing what she can in terms of healing, keeping him alive through the move, until finally, he’s laid in a cot with a healer assigned to tend to him.</p>
<p>Even so, neither Azriel, Mor or I leave, though Rhys does the moment he and Mor seem to realize that Feyre isn’t here. Azriel and I both can’t seem to register what that could mean as we watch the gaping wound close ever so slowly under the white glow of the healer’s magic.</p>
<p>No one says a thing as we watch her work, but I absently note the tang of blood filling my mouth and reach a gory hand up to my nose, discovering fresh blood of my own in the mix once I pull that hand away.</p>
<p>
  <span> A little bit of a nosebleed is nothing compared to the sore spot blossoming in my abdomen </span>
  <span>though</span>
  <span>, from that shield. It’s really a miracle I’m not worse off than I am. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Unfortunately, Cassian suffered the damage I </span>
  <span>
    <em>should</em>
  </span>
  <span> have suffered for going into the fight in the state I was </span>
  <span>in</span>
  <span>, no matter how well I handled myself despite it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> But he’ll live, he has to. He’s breathing, his </span>
  <span>heart's</span>
  <span> beating. He’ll live.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time I didn't hesitate. </span>
  <span>Not for too long, at least.</span>
</p>
<p>No one says a thing as Rhys and Feyre arrive, the latter almost tumbling to the ground at the sight of the male in the cot.</p>
<p>“How” She rasps, breaking the silence we’d dwell in.</p>
<p>“Where were you” Is all Mor says, but I can’t care to figure out what she means, can hardly stay standing with this headache raging, this exhaustion sinking into my bones.</p>
<p>So out of shape. So terribly out of shape it’s illegal.</p>
<p>Feyre ignores Mor’s demanding words</p>
<p>“Is he—is he going to—” She doesn’t finish, can’t, I assume.</p>
<p>“No” The healer says without looking away, which strikes me as an odd answer. She could have very well been meaning to ask whether he’d live or not. “He’ll be sore for a few days, though” She continues, and I don’t voice any of my passing thought, voice none of them, mostly all nonsensical and strange.</p>
<p>I’ll be drifting tonight, I can feel it, which will do nothing to help with the nosebleed and headache.</p>
<p>A viscous cycle.</p>
<p>“How” Feyre tries again.</p>
<p>“He wouldn’t wait for us” Mor begins flatly. “He kept charging—trying to re-form the line. One of the commanders engaged him. He wouldn’t run away. By the time we got there, he was down” Neither Azriel or I tear our eyes away from the slowly knitting wound.</p>
<p>
  <span> I </span>
  <span>can </span>
  <span>still feel the gushy </span>
  <span>sensation</span>
  <span> of his intestines </span>
  <span>if I think t</span>
  <span>o</span>
  <span>o hard about it, so I try not to think at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Where did you </span>
  <span>
    <em>go</em>
  </span>
  <span>?” Mor pushes for answers of her own, but the healer cuts in.</span>
</p>
<p>“If you’re about to fight, take it outside. My patient doesn’t need this” Her voice is sharp, strict.</p>
<p>No one moves a muscle.</p>
<p>“You are, as always, free to go wherever and whenever you wish” Rhys begins, tone diplomatic. “But what I think Mor is saying is… try leaving a note the next time”</p>
<p>
  <span> “I’m sorry” She eventually says, to us all, I believe. I’m not really her anymore, I’m… I’m already drifting somewhere, I see… What is that? </span>
  <span>
    <em>Where</em>
  </span>
  <span> is that? Am I hallucinating?</span>
</p>
<p>I could be, it’s hard to tell the difference at times. I could be spinning illusions on myself too, you never know when my mind stops obeying my orders.</p>
<p>
  <span> “You have nothing to be sorry for” Rhys answers her. “You decided to take things into your own hands, and got valuable information in the process. But…” He pauses, I don’t see why. “We have been lucky” He breathes. “Keeping a step ahead—keeping out o</span>
  <span>f </span>
  <span>Hybern’s claws. Even if today… today wasn’t so fortunate on the battlefield. But the cynic in me wonders if our luck is about to expire. And I would rather it not end with you” </span>
  <span>A wordier way of saying he doesn’t want her to die doing something reckless, but whatever Feyre did, it’s apparently given us valuable information. I’ll let it slide.</span>
</p>
<p>Rhys and Feyre share some hushed words, but I don’t really register them, trying desperately to focus on Cassian and not the tricks my mind is beginning to pull on me.</p>
<p>Only when Rhys moves to the edge of the cot does my gaze shift from the wound his body obstructs form me, shift to Cassian’s eyes as they slip open, the general groaning in pain.</p>
<p>
  <span> “That’s what you get” The healer says, gathering her things. “For stepping in front of a sword” She frowns at him. “Rest tonight and tomorrow. I know better than to insist on the third day after that, but try </span>
  <span>
    <em>not</em>
  </span>
  <span> to leap in front of blades anytime soon” Healers are just delightful people.</span>
</p>
<p>Either they’re harsh and strict, or calm and comforting. Sometimes both intertwined into one.</p>
<p>Cassian just blinks, dazed, something I’ve been doing for a while now myself, and I wonder if anyone’s taken note. I doubt it.</p>
<p>“How bad” He asks, voice hoarse.</p>
<p>“How bad was your injury” Rhys begins. “or how badly did we have our asses kicked?”</p>
<p>Cassian blinks again, slowly.</p>
<p>“To answer the second question” Rhys continues, something sharp entering his voice, prompting Azriel and Mor to back off a couple paces, and when I don’t move, Azriel pulls me back along with him, settling me a step behind.</p>
<p>I note him look, then, at me—just for a moment—and concern flashes in his eyes before he looks back at Rhys who continues to talk.</p>
<p>
  <span> “We managed. Keir took heavy hits, but… we won. Barely. To answer the first…” I watch Rhys bare his teeth. “Don’t you </span>
  <span>
    <em>ever</em>
  </span>
  <span> pull that kind </span>
  <span>o</span>
  <span>f shit again”</span>
</p>
<p>Cassian, as if hearing the challenge, the anger thrown at him, moves to sit up. A stupid move as he hisses in pain, scowling down at the angry red slice down his chest.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Your guts were hanging out, you stupid prick” Rhys snaps. “Az </span>
  <span>and Elle </span>
  <span>held them in for you</span>
  <span>” Elle. That’s new. Well, they all saw the muffins, then.</span>
</p>
<p>“I’m a soldier” Cassian says flatly. “It’s part of the job”</p>
<p>
  <span> “I gave you an order to </span>
  <span>
    <em>wait</em>
  </span>
  <span>” Rhys growls. “You ignored it”</span>
</p>
<p>“The lines was breaking” Cass retorts. “Your order was bullshit” Well, he’s clearly still Cassian, that’s for sure.</p>
<p>Rhys seems to lean forward, snarls right in Cassian’s face.</p>
<p>
  <span> “I am your </span>
  <span>
    <em>High Lord</em>
  </span>
  <span>. You don’t get to disregard orders you don’t like” I’ve never heard him pull rank like that.</span>
</p>
<p>Cassian somehow manages to sit up this time, swearing at the pains before retorting.</p>
<p>“You don’t get to pull rank because you’re pissed off—”</p>
<p>
  <span> “You and your damn theatrics on the battlefield nearly got you </span>
  <span>
    <em>killed</em>
  </span>
  <span>. I’m not pissed. I’m </span>
  <span>
    <em>f</em>
  </span>
  <span>
    <em>urious</em>
  </span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “So you’re allowed to be mad about our choices to protect </span>
  <span>
    <em>you—</em>
  </span>
  <span>and we’re not allowed to be furious with you for </span>
  <span>
    <em>your</em>
  </span>
  <span> self-sacrificing bullshit?” I have missed things. </span>
</p>
<p>Rhys snarls, and Cassian snarls right back.</p>
<p>“You could have died” Is all Rhys says.</p>
<p>“So could you” I don’t think they’re talking about the battle, this is something else, something before me. The silence says enough.</p>
<p>“Even after Hybern… I can’t stomach it” Cassian winces as he leans forward, gripping his brother’s shoulder.</p>
<p>I’m barely present as Azriel guides me out of the tent with a hand at my back, leading me out into the last glimmers of daylight, milky and weak.</p>
<p>
  <span>Nesta is there, I note, but not quite, not as Azriel leads me away, takes me to a tent that I know is his from the scent and sits me down on the furs, </span>
  <span>guides me down to my side</span>
  <span>, muddy and gross as I am.</span>
</p>
<p>“I’ll be back soon” Is all he says before rising back from the crouch before me, only staying a moment to watch me nod before he leaves, leaves me in this dark tent.</p>
<p>The dark.</p>
<p>A smile tugs at my lips, faint and meek.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay so I plotted how the last battle is going to go down last night, and well... Have fun with that?</p>
<p>Also I'm pretty sure Sarah deliberately keeps Azriel lonely in the books to support fanfic writing and promote fans to interact with the fandom. Just a theory.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0046"><h2>46. A little Closer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Azriel doesn’t return for a while, leaving me to rest in that darkness for quite some time, covered in reeking grime and dirt and blood. But despite that last bit of discomfort, my mind is clearing by the second, this darkness helping me stay confined, present, yet it does not stop thoughts from whirling in my head, keeping me awake.</span>
</p>
<p>I wonder what’s going on with the others, if I should get up and find out, but I’m exhausted, body and mind. I’d be useless outside of this darkness right now. It’s better if I stay and regain my bearings.</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s better if I stay and wait for Azriel.</span>
</p>
<p>When Azriel does return, he simply manifests in the darkness, his thumping heartbeat and whispering shadows filling my senses, and it feels like a weight is instantly lifted, the weight of not knowing where he's been.</p>
<p>He crouches down beside me—something I hear rather than see—and I shift my head to look at him, but am only met with darkness.</p>
<p>Tugging at the scraps of light in me, I make myself glow just a little, revealing Azriel to indeed be kneeling at my side, a steaming cup of something that scents of herbs and bitterness in his hand. He doesn’t seem surprised by my glow—just intrigued—and doesn’t comment on it as he reaches out that steaming cup to me.</p>
<p>Slowly, I push myself up to perch on an elbow, reaching my other shaky arm out to grasp the cup, and Azriel helps guide it to my lips as I take a careful sip, finding it hot, but not too hot. Just enough. It’s also bitter, but there’s a sweetness to it, like he asked them to add something sweet to it, like honey.</p>
<p>I gulp it down, and whatever healing or energizing properties it had instantly brings more clarity to my senses, but it doesn’t ward off the exhaustion, not completely.</p>
<p>He takes the cup from me, and I fall back down to my side with a sigh.</p>
<p>“Thank you…” I mumble, voice hoarse and raspy.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>What else do you need?” Aside from darkness and clarity? I can’t think of anything for a time, can’t fathom why he’d be so set on caring about that after having been on that killing field as well. But Azriel walked off of it generally unscathed, while I walked off worse of than Adriata, which is just as humiliating. I remember the layer</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> of dirt lining my every limb then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “A bath” Azriel takes a deep breath, then a flash of cobalt flickers at his Siphons, a brush of </span>
  <span>his</span>
  <span> power moving over my body, vanishing the dirt and blood in it’s wake. I look on in awe, lift my gloved hands up before myself and gawk at the cleanliness of the black leathers, still visible in the faint cobalt light.</span>
</p>
<p>My eyes snap to him.</p>
<p>
  <span> “You could do that all this time?” My voice is clearer, honed by awe and something else. He nods. “</span>
  <span>Why </span>
  <span>didn’t you do <em>this</em> rather than </span>
  <span>hav</span>
  <span>e</span>
  <span> me spend </span>
  <span>
    <em>hours</em>
  </span>
  <span> cleaning you?” A smirk tugs at the side of his mouth, warding off some of the shadows and dullness in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “And </span>
  <span>where would the fun be</span>
  <span> in that?” I sigh, shaking my head faintly.</span>
</p>
<p>“You’re a prat” He chuckles faintly, then moves, slips down to his side before me, his forearm working as a rather harsh pillow.</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite my words, I smile, softly, weakly, as I look to where he lays before me, hardly visible now that neither my inner glow or Azriel’s Siphons light up the space, but my night-vision lets me see the outlines of him, his dark wide shape laid before me.</span>
</p>
<p>“You were drifting before” He says after some time spent in silence, a comfortable silence.</p>
<p>“I was” I admit. “I was seeing things, strange things. I think I was either hallucinating or spinning illusions on myself”</p>
<p>“And now?”</p>
<p>“I’m okay, the darkness helped” I take a long, deep breath, soothed by his scent, comforted by his closeness, be he still far.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>How’s your stomach?” I cringe, reminded by the dull ache throbbing there, the impact of the shield surely having left a bruise.</span>
</p>
<p>“Fine. It’s fine” Even I’m not convinced. “I messed up, but I recovered fast”</p>
<p>“You were sloppy today” I hum in solemn agreement</p>
<p>
  <span> “The illusion I spun around the army… It… </span>
  <span>It took a lot out of me” Azriel’s silence invites me to continue. “My head was left spinning for a while, it still was when I stepped onto that field”</span>
</p>
<p>“And yet you did” It feels scolding, but his tone’s neutral.</p>
<p>“I couldn’t watch” I mumble. “Not as it all went to shit. Not again”</p>
<p>“The last battle was—”</p>
<p>“I’m not talking about that” I cut in, then grow silent, my tongue growing heavy in my mouth, too heavy.</p>
<p>“What battle, then?” Careful, inquiring words, but not pushy. Encouraging.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Long ago… I…” I gulp, try to get rid of the vile taste in my mouth. “There was a battle during the War, it… I had scouted </span>
  <span>out a secluded division of </span>
  <span>the loyalist army. Drakon sent out his legions to fight it, left me to observe from afar. I… I didn’t see the second army marching through another valley, sneaking up behind them, they… They were surrounded, and I… I was ordered to stay, no matter what, so I hesitated, I didn’t help—” My voice cracks, eyes sting, and with my exhaustion nestled deep in my bones, I don’t have the strength to push it down, to stop </span>
  <span>the tears</span>
  <span> from spilling over. </span>
</p>
<p>As I struggle for breath, I feel Azriel grasp my hand, interlocking it with his in the dark space between us. Shadows are immediately brushing up my arm, cool and comforting even through the leathers. It gives me the strength to continue.</p>
<p>“When I managed to grow a pair, they… When I arrive, he… He was dead. He was already dead” The image pushes it’s way into my brain, that mangled set of wings, the spear right through his chest. Azriel’s hand grips mine tighter.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Who” Whether he saw that image—was somehow sent down the bond—or he generally wants to know who would cause such </span>
  <span>clear</span>
  <span> pain in me, I don’t know</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Jaxon” I breathe. “His name was Jaxon… He… When I was a young recruit I struggled to stay present during practice, my mind would drift, so I practiced at night, in secret” I take a moment to work through my words. “He found me one night, asked if I wanted a sparring buddy, and even though I refused him, continued to do so night after night, he… He never quit” I reach up and wipe these pathetic tears from my face. “He insisted on being such a pain in my ass that I eventually had to accept to preserve </span>
  <span>what little</span>
  <span> sanity </span>
  <span>I had</span>
  <span>… We… Having him around helped ground me during the days, it gave me a reason to stay where I was rather than drift to other beautiful places. He indirectly taught me to control it by forcing me to face it. The light”</span>
</p>
<p>“Was he your…” He doesn’t seem inclined to finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.</p>
<p>
  <span> “No, he… He could have been. He was handsome, I’ll give the moron that much, but he was like a brother to me, and he treated me like a sister… His social life became my social life, and when he passed… His family and friends knew I’d been tasked to oversee the battle, they knew I’d made a mistake. They blamed me, and I was left to myself on Cretea” </span>
  <span>I suck in a trembling breath. “I couldn’t let it happen again. I couldn’t watch while you all fought in that mess. I knew it was suicide to go in, but I… I just couldn’t watch history repeat itself” Azriel’s free hand reaches out to me, his gantlet retracted to leave bare, rough skin as he brushes away some tears from my face.</span>
</p>
<p>“You fought well” I smile, a meek quivering smile. “Sloppily, but well”</p>
<p>“Then imagine me at full strength” I attempt to bring some lightheartedness into the conversation again, but my voice is choked and cracked, no matter how I try. His hand settles at my cheek, thumb tracing the quivering line of my smile.</p>
<p>“A terrifying thought” I breathe a soft laugh.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Says </span>
  <span>M</span>
  <span>ister </span>
  <span>Intimidation</span>
  <span>” He chuckles, hand moving to settle some rouge strands of hair behind my ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Do I scare you?” A soft, almost hesitant question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>No</span>
  <span>” I answer, </span>
  <span>no hesitation at all. “No, you do not” Something seems to loosen in my chest, a phantom weight I didn’t realize was there. </span>
</p>
<p>In the silence that follows, I realize that while I’m laid on this bit of soft furs, Azriel has no cushioning beneath him, yet seems content to remain as he is.</p>
<p>“Have I… Have I stolen your bed?” I ask softly, the possibility presenting itself to me.</p>
<p>“I gave it to you”</p>
<p>“But you… You don’t want it back?” A few heartbeats of silence follow.</p>
<p>“I’m fine here” He answers smoothly after a time. Implying he’ll <em>stay</em> there too.</p>
<p>
  <span> “There’s room for you… If we really tried” I offer, hints of playfulness in my voice, but mostly exhaustion.</span>
  <span> Azriel breathes a long sigh, the hand he’d settled at my cheek retreating.</span>
</p>
<p>“That’s not a good idea”</p>
<p>“I have a thing for bad ideas” Azriel breaths a soft laugh.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Your ideas are brilliant, Estelle” A shiver crawls its way down my spine at the way he says my name, his smooth midnight voice like a purr </span>
  <span>in my ears</span>
  <span>. “Each more outlandish than the </span>
  <span>last</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>“Such flattery, Shadowsinger” His chuckle is a low melodic rumble. “Are you sure you don’t sing? You have the voice for it”</p>
<p>“I…” That hesitation… A smile curls onto my lips.</p>
<p>“You <em>do</em>, don’t you” His silence speaks volumes. “You lied to me. I’m wounded”</p>
<p>“I didn’t lie” I’m about to protest when he continues. “I panicked” And I keep my mouth shut. “No one’s ever asked me that. No one knows I do it. What I gave you was an automated response”</p>
<p>
  <span> “I see… Well, your secret's </span>
  <span>safe with me, Shadow</span>
  <span>
    <em>singer</em>
  </span>
  <span>” He let out a soft groan of dismay.</span>
</p>
<p>“You’ll be the death of me” He sighs, but I laugh, in soft little burst.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Don’t worry, I want you alive” </span>
  <span>I assure him calmly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>What a relief</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>“Thought I made that fairly clear”</p>
<p>
  <span> “You did. It’s mutual” I smile, a lovely heat blooming in my chest. </span>
  <span>A</span>
  <span> bright lightness, </span>
  <span>and </span>
  <span>not the heavy heat of desire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Is the feather still there?” He h</span>
  <span>u</span>
  <span>ms. “Have you been bullied for it?”</span>
</p>
<p>“No one’s noticed it. I…” He trails off, his voice fading into guilt.</p>
<p>“It’s fine if you’re hiding it, I get it” He says nothing. “You can take it out whenever you want, if it makes you uncomfortable”</p>
<p>“No” He mumble. “No I like it” I smile. “It’s just none of their business”</p>
<p>
  <span> “If Feyre sees it, she’ll never get out of </span>
  <span>our</span>
  <span> hair” He chuckles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “And she calls </span>
  <span>
    <em>us</em>
  </span>
  <span> busybodies” </span>
  <span>I laugh with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “You </span>
  <span>
    <em>are</em>
  </span>
  <span> one though. </span>
  <span>Y</span>
  <span>ou’re a literal spy”</span>
</p>
<p>“So are you” I shrug partly.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Fair enough” </span>
</p>
<p><span>In the silence that follows, I find my eyes </span><span>drooping</span><span>, my body relaxing to perhaps find some semblance of sleep, or at the very least some physical rest.</span> <span>As my breathing slowly evens out, calms, I feel a gentle weight settle over me like a blanket, warm and lovely. </span><span>H</span><span>eavy with his scent. It</span> <span>helps </span><span>eventually </span><span>lull</span> <span>me to a light</span><span>er</span><span> version of sleep.</span></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Last one for today, I think.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0047"><h2>47. Luring</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That fragile sliver of sleep is shattered as Azriel jolts awake, his wing unfurling form around me as he sits up straight at my side.</p>
<p>“What the hell?” He mumbles, clear confusion and unease in his voice.</p>
<p>“What is it…?” I ask, voice drowsy from sleep. I slowly push myself up to sit with him, noting our hands are still intertwined.</p>
<p>“It don’t know, it’s—” He shudders, his hand tightening it’s grip of mine. “Somethings not right”</p>
<p>“Explain” I demand softly, my drowsiness clearing, revealing a much sounder mind than what I fell asleep with, but still heavy.</p>
<p>
  <span> “It’s like… The shadows… They’re recoiling, the world itself is recoiling” I try to see what he’s feeling, glimpse into the darkness, but my mind is met by nothing but blackness. Until there’s </span>
  <span>
    <em>something</em>
  </span>
  <span> slithering within it, and I yelp, embarrassingly startled by this </span>
  <span>
    <em>thing</em>
  </span>
  <span>. Endless and shapeless. “You felt that” I think it was meant as a question, but Azriel failed to get the tone right. </span>
</p>
<p><span> “No. I—” My physical eyes dart throughout the darkness, as if I might find that </span><span><em>something </em></span><span>slithering</span> <span>in here as well. “I saw it. It was… I don’t know what it was, it had shape yet didn’t”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Azriel tenses again, wing folding around me instinctively, and soon he’s dragged us both to our feet, surprising me by keeping me in his arms, wings folded tightly around me as shadows swirl around us, indeed whispering of discomfort. Unease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Daring a peak into the shapeless darkness again, I find that slithering </span>
  <span>
    <em>thing</em>
  </span>
  <span> again, feel like it’s peering back at me, seeing me, and as I startle back into myself, my arms instinctively clutch him tighter, and his do the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Something’s </span>
  <span>
    <em>here</em>
  </span>
  <span>, something that </span>
  <span>
    <em>watches</em>
  </span>
  <span>, it </span>
  <span>
    <em>saw </em>
  </span>
  <span>me looking at it” The shadows grow </span>
  <span>denser</span>
  <span> around us, like walls of protective darkness, some brushing along my body, whispering wordless comforts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Nothing will harm you” He mumbles, his tone laced with enough of a threatening edge that I know he’d make sure of it, would fight whatever this </span>
  <span>
    <em>thing</em>
  </span>
  <span> is to keep me safe from it. “</span>
  <span>The other’s are gathering, we should go see what they know” I nod into his chest, and within moments the shadows have consumed us, brought us to a dimly moonlit part of camp, where Feyre, Nesta, Amren, Rhys and Varian have gathered. </span>
</p>
<p>Lingering in a shadow close to them, Azriel uncurls his wings from around me and reluctantly uncoils his arms from my body, moving me to stand at his side, a supporting hand placed at my back as we emerge.</p>
<p>
  <span> “What </span>
  <span>
    <em>is</em>
  </span>
  <span> that” Azriel hisses, granting us both their immediate attention. Feyre’s brows raise.</span>
</p>
<p>“You hear it?” He shakes his head.</p>
<p>
  <span> “No—but the shadows, the wind… They recoil” </span>
  <span>Azriel tenses, hand at my back gripping at the leathers I wear, wings flaring slightly. No one answers Azriel’s question, the three females too busy listening to something, and the two other present males alertly observing the dark camp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “I think it’s leaving” Feyre whispers. But what? </span>
  <span>
    <em>What</em>
  </span>
  <span> is leaving?</span>
</p>
<p>Cassian staggers into the mix, hand clutching his chest, Mor on his heel, and Rhys swiftly explains what’s going on, all of us stood in the dead of night.</p>
<p>
  <span> The Cauldron, here, </span>
  <span>
    <em>looking</em>
  </span>
  <span> after they taunted it by looking for it, a meeting I missed in my moment of mental disarray, a meeting Azriel spared me from. Forgot to mention. I don’t care to be annoyed about that. I’ll ask Rhys to fill me in later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Because Hybern most likely knows where we are now, the Cauldron having slithered back to it’s master, and that’s </span>
  <span>
    <em>not</em>
  </span>
  <span> ideal.</span>
</p>
<p>Varian questions how Amren, Nesta and Feyre can hear it, if it has to do with them being Made, and Amren assumes so.</p>
<p>
  <span> Both Azriel and I notice it practically at the same time, our eyes meeting to see if the other’s thinking the same thing. </span>
  <span>Snapping his focus back to our friends, he speaks.</span>
</p>
<p>“What about Elain” I watch something cold fill Feyre, watch Nesta stare at Azriel so intensely I worry she might burn a hole through his skull. Then she breaks into a run.</p>
<p>We follow, all of us do, reach Elain’s tent in time to see the look in Feyre’s eyes, the devastating truth within them.</p>
<p>Forcing himself to leave my side, he strides into the tent, and after having squeezed his way inside, ignoring Nesta’s snarl, he feels the sheets of Elain’s bed with a prodding hand.</p>
<p>“They’re still warm” He states, his words almost drowned out by Cassian’s barking orders, waking the camp from it’s slumber.</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>The Cauldron” Feyre breathes. “The Cauldron was fading away—going somewhere—” Nesta starts springing again, and Feyre’s quick to follow, both having realized the same thing, the same thing we soon realize as well.</span>
</p>
<p>It was luring Elain out. Whatever song the Made Fae could hear, it lured the middle Archeron sister out of the safety of our camp.</p>
<p>Into the arms of our enemy.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay, one more cause it's short</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0048"><h2>48. The Only Way</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nesta looks a misplaced breath away from caving in where she sits in Feyre and Rhys’s war-tent, head gathered in her hands.</p>
<p>Whatever she’d stolen from the Cauldron, it prompted the Cauldron to steal something back, and it picked it’s target well.</p>
<p>
  <span>Elain. Sweet, lovely Elain. I… I don’t want to even </span>
  <span>
    <em>begin</em>
  </span>
  <span> to imagine what’s being done to her in that camp, a camp which Feyre deigned to show me once I mentioned I’d missed the meeting. </span>
</p>
<p>It was an effort not to let my spirit crumble at the sight of that vast behemoth of an army.</p>
<p>
  <span>I look to Azriel, stood in this patch of shadows with me, said shadows working to shield me as much as they’re shielding himself from sight. He looks to me too, his features cold, but his eyes </span>
  <span>and uneasy heart</span>
  <span> reveal the worry within, his thoughts about Elain similar to my own. </span>
</p>
<p>A dear friend. One we’d do anything to protect.</p>
<p>“We’ll get her back” Cassian rasps, seated on the rolled arm of the chaise in this small sitting area within the High Lord and High Lady’s tent.</p>
<p>Rhys, Amren and Mor have gone to speak with the other High Lords here, to see what they might be able to offer in terms of aid. To get Elain back.</p>
<p>Nesta’s hands lower from her face, revealing red-rimmed eyes and thin lips.</p>
<p>
  <span> “No, you will not” She points to the map on the table. “I saw that army. It’s size, who is in it. I </span>
  <span>
    <em>saw</em>
  </span>
  <span> it, and there’s no chance </span>
  <span>
    <em>any</em>
  </span>
  <span> of you are getting into it’s heart. Even you. </span>
  <span>
    <em>Especially </em>
  </span>
  <span>not when you’re injured” She adds the last part when Cass move</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> to speak again, successfully silencing him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I watch </span>
  <span>Azriel’s</span>
  <span> mind work, see the decision being made in his eyes as Nesta finishes her speech of doom, and every muscle in my body locks up.</span>
</p>
<p>“I’m getting her back” He states, stepping out of our patch of shadow. It’s a struggle not to reach for him, to pull him back here and demand he see reason. But I also see him doing it, can see him slipping in and out successfully, if he’s smart about it. It’s the only thing keeping me sane.</p>
<p>“Then you will die” Nesta tells him, and I fist my hands to keep them from trembling.</p>
<p>“I’m getting her back” What having his back to me does not let me glimpse in his eyes, I feel down the bond instead. A determined rage. To return what’s been taken from us. To bring Elain back safe and sound.</p>
<p>I want to join him, but in the dark, I’m useless, have no illusions to aid him with. Though while Azriel could get through that camp unnoticed in the shroud of shadow, he cannot pass through wards, can’t deal with all the possible obstacles by himself. He… Feyre stands.</p>
<p>“I’m going with you” She says, and Azriel only nods. I hate that I agree, that I think of Feyre’s powers and find it the only possible solution, the only plausible way.</p>
<p>“You’ll never get far enough into the camp” Cassian warns. But Feyre looks to have a plan herself.</p>
<p>“I’m going to walk right in” And as we all frown, confused by her statement, we watch her features shift into someone else entirely. And it’s not a glamour, but true shape-shifting.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Shit” Cassian breathes once her transformation is complete. </span>
  <span>Nesta stands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “They might already know she’s dead” Whoever this person Feyre has turned herself </span>
  <span>into</span>
  <span> is an ally of Hybern, and if she… With a disguise convincing enough, and the little sliver of luck that Hybern </span>
  <span>
    <em>isn’t</em>
  </span>
  <span> aware of this someone’s death, then maybe… It could work. I hate that it could work. That it might be the </span>
  <span>
    <em>only</em>
  </span>
  <span> thing that could work.</span>
</p>
<p>“I need one of your Siphons” Feyre says to Azriel, and the male doesn’t even hesitate as he reaches out his hand to his High Lady, a smooth blue stone appearing in it. She picks it up, observes it for a moment, then looks to Cassian.</p>
<p>“Where is the blacksmith” She asks, and she’s taken right to him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~O~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I trail after Azriel as he walks through camp, headed somewhere. I don’t know what to say to him, how to express the utter mess raging within me, and while I wait outside the tent he enters, I try to work it out. Key word <em>try</em>.</p>
<p>As he emerges with a priestess’ robe in tow, I grab his arm and stop him, force him to face me, my lips parting, but no words escape me.</p>
<p>
  <span> Just tears. </span>
  <span>H</span>
  <span>eavy, frustrated tears slip down my cheeks as I struggle to find the right words to express how much I hate this, how much I </span>
  <span>
    <em>don’t </em>
  </span>
  <span>want him to do this, how much I hate that he’s the only option there is. Struggle to find the right words </span>
  <span>to express how deeply I care for him, how much I </span>
  <span>
    <em>need</em>
  </span>
  <span> him to return form this.</span>
</p>
<p><span> Pain flashes in his determined eyes, apology mingling with it,</span> <span>and his free hand shakily reaches up to wipe those heavy tears away, the one clutching the robe </span><span>maintaining</span><span> its hold as his arm snakes around my waist, pulling me close, wings </span><span>un</span><span>furling to </span><span>cocoon</span><span> us both.</span></p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>I won’t die” He murmurs in promise, his hand settling at my tear stained cheek, thumb continuing it’s task of wiping </span>
  <span>it</span>
  <span> clear. There’s no judgment for my weakness </span>
  <span>in his eyes</span>
  <span>, just a keen sense of understanding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “You better not, you prat” I choke down a sob to say, yet the words still come out shaky and distraught. </span>
  <span>The softest </span>
  <span>hint </span>
  <span>of </span>
  <span>a </span>
  <span>smile tugs at his lips, and before I realize he’s moved, he’s kissing my tears away, those his hand has not caught </span>
  <span>at my right cheek</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> My eyes flutter closed, my heart churning yet singing at the </span>
  <span>feel</span>
  <span> of those soft pair of lips against my skin, and their path brings them to my ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “You’ll be there with me” He murmurs, his voice a soothing melody. His hand at my cheek reaches down for the hand I keep planted against his chest, takes it and lifts it as he straightens, brings it to the little feather still hung behind his ear. I let my fingers play with it as I understand. “And I’ll be here with you” He continues, his words followed by the cool caress of a shadow coiling around my left wrist. My eyes widen as I feel it settle like a bracelet. A cool, slithering bracelet </span>
  <span>of living shadow.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Today was busy, so I didn't have time to post anything earlier, but I hope a bit of fluff makes up for it. I'll post one or two more today if time allows.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0049"><h2>49. Discovered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span> Rhys goes through his commands—to bring both Feyre and Elain back no matter the cost </span>
  <span>amongst one of them</span>
  <span>—</span>
  <span>I stand and watch form the far corner of the tent, a glassy gloss from my tears still lingering in my eyes, but everyone is so focused on the departing pair that it goes unnoticed </span>
  <span>as </span>
  <span>Azriel</span>
  <span> accept all orders </span>
  <span>given</span>
  <span>, formally and clearly, his determination to heed each one clear both in his eyes and the </span>
  <span>bond.</span>
</p>
<p>No one notices the white feather dangling behind his ear, a gentle shadow swirling about it, but not quite obstructing the view.</p>
<p>As Feyre takes Azriel’s hand—prepared to let him take them both to Hybern’s camp—his eyes flick to me, hold my pained gaze as his shadows swirl and expand, preparing to shift away. There’s only silent promise in them, to do this swiftly and efficiently, and I force myself to believe him as they slip away, just as Mor comes charging into the tent, watching them both fade away with devastation overtaking her features.</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t hear her words—or anyone’s for that matter—as I hone my senses on the bracelet of shadow coiled around my left wrist, where the bargain once laid. </span>
  <span>It murmurs and coils, always moving and soothing. I let my right hand touch it, watch it bend around my touch like a parting river, and as I let a brush of golden wind lace with it, it dances and sings.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> It’s existence is the only thing keeping me sane </span>
  <span>with him gone</span>
  <span>, really, </span>
  <span>working as </span>
  <span>an added assurance beyond the bond that he’s alive and well</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> I don’t notice the others leave to their own devices—their own duties—not until Rhys steps before me, his close proximity alerting my senses, and I loo</span>
  <span>k</span>
  <span> up to meet his violet gaze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> It is… strained, tense, but there’s more glimmering behind it, something I can’t quite rea</span>
  <span>d, even with my mind mostly returned to me since the recent events. Though the recent-most one has jumbled it a fraction again, my worry a consuming weight in my chest that I try my best to quell, to block out with numb indifference to preserve myself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Though that numbness has failed me all day, all week even, </span>
  <span>no matter how hard I’ve tried to quell my emotions</span>
  <span>. My leash successfully serves to keep me from physically acting on my worry, but I still feel it. Keenly.</span>
</p>
<p>“Come, sit with me” Rhys offers once he knows he’s got my attention, making no move to reach out to me, instead heading to the now vacated sitting area and having a seat. I watch the chair opposite him for a moment, then decide to accept the offer.</p>
<p>
  <span> By some miracle, my knees hold as I walk to it, and as I sit down, my posture does not waver. It is unnaturally stiff, I know that, but don’t care. Rhysand’s is equally stiff as he observes me, searching for something. </span>
  <span>F</span>
  <span>or words, I realize.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “You’re his mate” He states, this tone making it more of a declaration than a question, a tone laced with hints of disbelief and perhaps annoyance. Annoyed he didn’t see sooner. </span>
  <span>I nod. “Does he know that?” I nod again. “And have you…?” I shake my head. Rhys gives his brow a long massage. “Explains why he’s been so… Strange lately. When did you realize?” I brace myself to speak, praying my voice holds solid now compared to what can’t be more then half an hour ago, less.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Do you remember when he left, a couple days before Feyre’s return” </span>
  <span>My voice comes out flat. </span>
  <span>Rhys looks thoughtful for a moment, then nods. “He left because the bond snapped </span>
  <span>into place</span>
  <span>” </span>
  <span>Because it scared him, because he didn’t know what to make of it, how to handle it’s beckoning, handle the weight of it—</span>
  <span>handle </span>
  <span>what it meant for both him and I, for our future.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I only find a sense of understanding in Rhys’s eyes, and in myself. There is no anger—no hurt—not anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>My bargain broke that night too. It was a mess” Rhys nods, watching me closely.</span>
</p>
<p>“Will you be okay, knowing where he is?” I hold his gaze.</p>
<p>“As okay as you” His lips thin into a line, jaw tenses. Then it loosens, and he moves to speak again.</p>
<p>“I’ve been wondering—why he’s been so… so withdrawn, so… explosive” I assume he refers to the meeting in regards to the latter. But the former, well, Azriel’s always withdrawn to a degree—shrouded in privacy—but I suppose he’s been more so than usual lately, more so than when I first met him. “I assumed it was the war, his walls up tight to focus on his tasks. But then he exploded at the meeting and it just didn’t make sense to me. I enjoyed watching him give Eris what he deserved, but the comment he made, however vile… it didn’t warrant the reaction”</p>
<p>
  <span>Rhys summons two wineglasses and a bottle of the beverage, fills his and grasps the goblet, taking a slow sip. When I don’t </span>
  <span>move</span>
  <span> to fill mine, </span>
  <span>he summons a </span>
  <span>pitcher</span>
  <span> of water as well, and I move to filly my glass, welcoming the cool, refreshing beverage </span>
  <span>as I sip it down, leaned back in the cushioned chair</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>“But throw in an itching mating bond and you have a much sounder explanation. I’m ashamed I didn’t see it sooner” Rhys cradles the glass in his palm, assessing me as I lower my own, my expression blank. “The feather” He continues. “What did you tell him when you gave it to him?” I gulp, stir the water in my goblet.</p>
<p>“That it was a token of luck” Rhys snorts.</p>
<p>“Well, it <em>is</em>, but did you tell him the <em>other</em> thing?” I go perfectly still. “I assume that’s a no”</p>
<p>“We have not discussed it” I state calmly, coldly. “What we are. Not once. Do you think I’d tell him <em>that</em>” Rhys cringes ever so slightly, but covers it with a sip of his drink.</p>
<p>“That you love him?” He casually asks behind that glass, and my heart does a flip as he gives voice to the truth I haven’t even dared to <em>think</em> since I found these people, got to know them—got to know Azriel.</p>
<p>“How do you know about the feather?” Rhys sets down his goblet on the table between us.</p>
<p>“Because I fought alongside your people during the War and saw plenty of Seraphim weave feathers into their beloved’s hair” Rhys eyes fall to the slithering shadow around my wrist. “And <em>that </em>right there would be Az’s equivalent” I hadn’t dared believe it—when he wrapped that shadow around my wrist—didn’t dare think it any more than a gift like what I told him mine had been, or a binding to solidify his promise to come back.</p>
<p>But if Rhys is right…</p>
<p>“He loves Mor” I state in defiance, because the alternative… I’m not ready to accept the thought that someone could love me.</p>
<p>“He used to, yes, but did he look at her when she barged in here? Has he been trailing her every step since you came into the picture? Been watching her every move?” I remain stationary, silent and still in my seat before him. “No, he has not. Because he’s been watching <em>you</em>” Rhys runs a hand through his sleep-ruffled blue-black hair. “I thought he was just curious about you, and he probably was at first, but he’s not just curious anymore”</p>
<p>For a moment, my hand trembles, the water in my glass rippling, so I set it down and fold my hands in my lap.</p>
<p>“Don’t let Az’s silence fool you, he cares, a lot” Rhys carries on when I continue to linger in silence.</p>
<p>“I know” I say softly, my voice meek, because I don’t dare raise it any higher. “I know he cares, I… I just…” My head falls, eyes land on my lap, my hands. “I just don’t think I…”</p>
<p>“Deserve him? I felt the same about Feyre at first” I lift my gaze to him, but don’t move my head. “And if life has taught me anything, it’s that those who deem themselves unworthy of love are those who need it most, have not experienced enough” Even though my body stays perfectly still, I know my feathers ruffle for a moment—can’t help it—and I also know he sees it as he sips on his crimson beverage.</p>
<p>“When did you become a therapist” He snorts on his wine.</p>
<p>“Once you both work through your hindrances and mate, you’ll be <em>hell</em> to deal with” He sigh, the act lined with a laugh. A faint smile tugs at my lips, but the truth of the matter crushes it quickly.</p>
<p>“If he comes back” All humor drains from Rhysand’s face then.</p>
<p>“He will” He states, tone assuring.</p>
<p>“You didn’t specify that he had to. Just Elain and Feyre” Rhys pales just a fraction. “If getting them out means dying in the process, he might just make that sacrifice” Promise or not, Azriel is loyal to his High Lord, fiercely so. He will complete his task no matter the cost.</p>
<p>“He’ll come back” Rhys assures me again, tone softer. “For you, he’ll come back” I force myself to believe him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0050"><h2>50. Wounded</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I sit with Rhysand all night as we both anticipate our mates' to returns, the both of us watching the darkness outside slowly shift into early dawn through a gap in the entrance flap, the coming of day taunting me with the truth that Azriel’s shadows, however obscuring, will not hide him well in daylight</p>
<p>But the bond is silent, eerily silent, like whatever wards he dwells behind have severed communication through there as well, and as I sneak a peak down the moonlight bridge, I indeed find a barrier separating either side of it.</p>
<p>There’s no use trying to break it, I try to, but Rhys quietly tells me it’s useless once he notices.</p>
<p>We can’t break the wards from here.</p>
<p>And so we linger in the silence, waiting, my heart a discomforting thump in my chest, but not his this time, just my own. Worried and distraught all on it’s own.</p>
<p>I reach for my glass of water, the only thing I’ve had the stomach to consume—even though Rhys offered some grapes once he learnt that I hadn’t eaten since the morning prior, a revelation prompted by my growling stomach. I’m too nauseous to eat, but water works, cool refreshing water helps.</p>
<p>My body jerks as a sudden, burning pain tears it’s way down my back, my outstretched hand toppling the glass and shattering it on the floor as I gasp, wings slumping behind me, my body folding in on itself as I struggle to breathe through the sudden agony.</p>
<p><em>Azriel</em>.</p>
<p>Something’s wrong. He’s hurt. He’s injured.</p>
<p>Rhys has gotten to his feet, but I don’t hear what he's saying, not as I spear down the retching bond and find him on the other side, find his eyes and see him walking for our camp. Limping. In pain.</p>
<p>I spear back into myself in a heartbeat, force myself to breathe through the pain and gather my bearings, and once I manage to straighten—manage to look at Rhysand’s worried face—I speak.</p>
<p>“They’re here” His face shifts into predatory focus.</p>
<p>“Where?”</p>
<p>“Look” Is all I manage to say, and his mental claws are quickly prodding at my mind. I let them in, let him see what I saw through Azriel’s eyes, then he retreats, pulls me to my feet and winnows us to the approximate location.</p>
<p>My wings are still slumped down my back as we appear on the dirt path leading to the outskirts of camp, my posture still broken by the phantom pains the bond is relaying. But I couldn’t care less as I see him there, holding a chained Elain in his arms, the scent of his blood heavy in the air.</p>
<p>Feyre says something, but I don’t listen. All I can care to listen to is his heart, thrumming with pain, but alive. All I can care to look at is his eyes, golden in the dim light of dawn, but dulled by his injury.</p>
<p>The injuries down his back, his wings—</p>
<p>I stride past Feyre, stride past Azriel and turn to find the cause of my phantom pain, <em>his</em> pain. All color drains from my face as I watch the blood gushing out of the long gashes running down his back, marring sections of his wings. I don’t care that he hisses as I place my hand against it, willing golden light to soothe—at the least—until a true healer can help him. He only lets his head slump forward, controlling his breathing as I do what I can to help.</p>
<p>Elain peers back at me over his shoulder, still wrapped in his arms, her chained hands around his neck. She looks unhurt—both in body and mind—which is a small relief in the wake of all my worry.</p>
<p>Rhys takes her out of his arms, sets her down, and the shift in Azriel's center of gravity makes him sway, but I wrap my free arm firmly around his waist to keep him standing, my other hand still planted against his back, drenched in his hot, fresh blood.</p>
<p>“We need Helion to get these chains off her” Azriel rasps, accepting my forceful help, despite the physical closeness of it. Elain doesn’t seem bothered by her chains however, as she rises to her toes and plants a kiss to Azriel’s cheek before stepping to her sisters.</p>
<p>“We need to get you to Thesan” Rhys counters Azriel’s words with some of his own. “Right now”</p>
<p>I help Rhys take him there, keep a soothing wind pushed against his wounds as we keep him upright by his shoulders, his head growing limper by the second as the adrenaline of whatever happened fizzles out and leaves pain and exhaustion behind.</p>
<p>The High Lord lets us in immediately, clears his desk while Azriel drowsily follows the instruction to retract his armor, letting us get him out of his torn under-tunic and primed for Thesan’s healing. He tells us to lay him down on his desk, and we’ve barely gotten him sorted before the pure light of Thesan’s power assumes it’s work mending the deep gushing gashes along Azriel’s back, reaching from his shoulder blades down to his lower back.</p>
<p>My head has gone blank at this point, wiped clean of anything but the bloody sight before me, my heart thundering in my chest as I behold the damage, his own a weak rhythm in my head.</p>
<p>“I have this handled. Go, Rhysand” To his mate, perhaps wounded herself, but Rhys hesitates, looks my way, to my gaunt face as I look down at my own nearly unconscious mate, his eyes mere slivers where they hide behind a drape of black-brown hair.</p>
<p>Thesan looks at me too, then back at Rhys.</p>
<p>“She can stay. Go” Rhys doesn’t hesitate after that, and after a time stuck in thought-numbing paralysis, I find my mouth moving.</p>
<p>“Can I help” It’s not executed as a question, but a demand. A demand to be given a task, simply watching threatening to drive me mad.</p>
<p>“Sit with him” So I do. I kneel down on the floor before his face and reach a hand up to brush away the hair obscuring it, laying my head to rest against the table as I let the hand linger at his cheek, brush along it, to his ear, along it’s arch, down to the feather still nestled amongst the silken strands of black hair.</p>
<p>“Not… Dead…” He breathes in strained raspy bursts, and my lips quiver as I smile, a burning sting welling up in my eyes.</p>
<p>“Stay that way” I breathe, returning my hand to his cheek, this one mercifully free from his blood compared to my right. “Only <em>I’</em><em>m</em> allowed to kill you” I continue, voice wavering, but holding strong. I don’t care that Thesan’s here to see this, hear this. Not when he’s the one taking my mate’s pain away.</p>
<p>He lets his eyes fall closed with a sigh, pained, yet relieved, the meekest of smiles twitching at his lips.</p>
<p>His face is too twisted with pain for him to have fallen into slumber—his breathing too sharp—but neither of us say anything more as Thesan does his work, my hand simply trailing the gentle lines of Azriel’s beautiful face, pained, but beautiful. It seems to soothe him, the touch, to know I’m here, and my hand eventually finds its way to the braid, thin and near invisible behind the arch of his ear. It’s gone rugged and frizzy this past week, but it holds, just as the feather does.</p>
<p>I’ll re-braid him once this war is over, with a better binder than that leather band. Maybe gold thread to match his eyes, to mimic the golden wind in my veins.</p>
<p>“You’re a Seraphim” Thesan states, ending the long silence. I hum. “I thought you were dead” I don’t answer that, don’t know how to answer that.</p>
<p>Because for a time, I was as good as dead. There was no life left in me, no will. Just a longing to belong somewhere, a string of hope that kept me searching for that somewhere, kept me clinging to the possibility that someday, somehow, I’d find what I’d been searching for since the day I first lost my mind to the world. My home.</p>
<p>And here it is. Here <em>he</em> is. Wounded, but alive. Hurting, but okay.</p>
<p>My home.</p>
<p>My mate.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There's not a lot of chapters left of this thing, maybe six before acowar ends. I'll continue into acofas, of course, fill in some blanks between that book and acowar, but I haven't decided whether to make it a part two or just keep this one going. We'll see.</p>
<p>Anyways, last one for today. The next one will be a little more... Fun, if you will.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0051"><h2>51. Rematch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I do not acknowledge Morrigan’s arrival, not as I watch Azriel’s face draped in serene sleep before me. Finally resting. Finally not suffering his pains as Thesan works to bandage his back and wings, having done all he can confidently do himself.</p><p>She asks how he is, her voice mercifully soft, not even stirring the slumbering male before me. Thesan says the truth. That he’s fine, his back at least, but he has not healed many Illyrian wings and isn’t quite confident enough to perform the task, so Mor leaves to ask Rhys to send for a healer who <em>does</em> have experience, and Thesan continues to wrap up the remainder of his wounds so Azriel can be moved to his own tent and await proper care.</p><p>Rhys comes to help that happen, and my knees scream as I reluctantly push to my feet, Azriel stirring the moment my hand leaves his cheek, bleary eyes slipping open to observe my pained ascent.</p><p>Much like earlier this morning, I help Rhys guide Azriel to his tent, to wait for this healer, Madja, to come finish the healing, either tonight or tomorrow. But my aid is not physical this time, but rather performed in the way of clearing the path as I glare daggers at any Illyrian soldiers who dare step in our way for just a heartbeat, even to cross to the other side. With my wings partly flared and a murderous look in my eyes, they’re surprisingly compliant, at least the younger males. Those who saw me in Adriata, choking the life out of my enemies. The older ones aren’t as susceptible to my intimidation, and I shove them aside with a whip of wind instead, which Rhys seems to find endlessly amusing behind me, and Azriel as well, silently enjoying the show with only the glimmers of delight fluttering down the bond amongst the pain to let me know of it.</p><p>I keep the tent flap parted as Rhys helps his brother inside, guiding him towards the stretch of furs on the ground, which Rhys casts a displeased look.</p><p>“You <em>still</em> sleep on the floor” He mutters in exasperation, and Azriel just huffs, his wordless way of saying fuck off. Our High Lord sighs and helps his brother down to those furs, to lay onto his stomach and rest for the remainder of the day. Or at least until noon, Rhys compromises with a sigh when Az doesn’t sound pleased about the former order. “I hope you <em>at least </em>deign to treat your mate to a proper bed once the day comes” Rhys throws into the air before striding for the entrance I still keep open.</p><p>That comment leaves <em>him</em> the subject of my glare, but he just smirks, wholly content with himself as he passes me, and I throw the flap closed once he leaves, Rhys parting with a mental order that I stay here with Azriel, that he’ll inform me if anything urgent comes up.</p><p>I slam my mental walls shut in his face as well and bind the tent door, not keen on having visitors right now, then I move to lay on the dry bit of earth beside his fur rug, where Azriel slept beside me mere hours ago.</p><p>To think things can change so drastically.</p><p>Azriel tries to move his wounded wing away from the spot, but hisses faintly in pain. Assessing the situation for a moment, I decide to manually lift it and slip beneath, casting Azriel a questioning glance as I reach for the main limb of his wing, a glance he answers with a nod, his face burying into the furs he lay upon.</p><p>And so I grasp it, hands gentle and cautious as I lift it just enough to let me slip beneath, until I’m laid just on the edge of the furs, his wing a comfortable weight above me, my own tucked tightly to my back.</p><p>Azriel keeps his head buried in the gray and black furs, seems inclined to stay buried, so I reach my hand out to brush through his hair in slow gentle sweeps, until what were previously slow and deep breaths transform into a rolling purr.</p><p>“What happened?” I ask softly, not sure I want to know, as I might just bend down to Hybern’s army and kill the lot myself for causing him harm.</p><p>I’d die, but the bond ranks above reason sometimes, unless you’re careful.</p><p>Azriel grunts, a refusal strangled by the plush furs. He’s aware of the risk then, especially now that day has risen and refilled my strength.</p><p>“Alright then” I sigh, continuing my idle combing, and Azriel keeps purring. “Why <em>do</em> you sleep on the floor, if I may ask” Azriel takes a long, deep breath, then jaggedly shifts his head to look at me, eyes tired, face grayish from blood-loss, but alright. I stop combing his hair then, settle my arm back between us.</p><p>“It makes me feel down to earth” He rasps flatly, so flatly that I’m not sure he’s joking at first, but then I see the gentle twinkle in his eyes, and I laugh a string of sharp breaths.</p><p>“<em>That </em>is the worst joke I have <em>ever</em> heard” His lips tug into a lazy grin.</p><p>“You assume I’m joking” I roll my eyes and nudge myself closer, my head resting on the furs with him.</p><p>His eyes are set on nothing but me as I lay perhaps a hand’s width away, so close his breath tickles my lips.</p><p>“Are you?” I ask, genuinely curious and letting it show in my voice.</p><p>“Partly” He admits, his voice still raw from what I assume is screaming in agony, but alright, still melodic and dark. “A part of me is used to the floor. I grew up on it” My heart churns in my chest, thoughts of a young boy stuck in the dark flickering in my head, and Azriel’s hand reaches out to take mine where it hides beneath the membrane of his dark wing, squeezes it gently. “And war-cots are cramped” He adds, his tone lighter, eyes a little brighter, twinkling with sparks of mischief. “No room for a beautiful Seraphim female at my side” My cheeks instantly flare to a blush.</p><p>“I think we’d make it work” I stumble to retort, my tone clearly flustered, surprised by his sudden flirtatious playfulness. Azriel smirks a little wider, some color returning to his cheeks.</p><p>“Really? How so?” I take a deep breath, steadying myself to play if he so wishes, as eager to partake as the week prior, eager to shelve some issues in favor of some fun. To enjoy the fact that he’s alive rather than sulk in the remnants of what last night instilled in me, what the coming days will hold in terms of war.</p><p>To help distract him from his pain.</p><p>“I could lay on you” I suggest, Azriel’s pupils immediately flaring. I let my eyes trail down to his back. “Or, well, considering your current circumstances, perhaps I’d be better off <em>under</em> you” A primal glow flickers to life in his eyes, and in the mater of moments, the lingering dread and worry and primal protectiveness strips away from me, leaving only heat and sparkling amusement.</p><p>“I’d crush you” I can’t tell if that’s a threat or a promise. I don’t particularly I care either way.</p><p>“I know I’m small, but I think I’d handle it” His grip of my hand tightens a fraction.</p><p>“I’m big” His voice is a dark rumbling rasp, and a sly smirk quickly spreads across my lips, heat fluttering in my chest. Lower.</p><p>“I’m well aware” I purr, daring to reach out a leg, to brush my knee down his powerful thigh, and the glow in Azriel’s eyes turns into a flame, his breathing accelerating. It doesn’t seem to do his back any good, but he doesn’t seem to care.</p><p>“You enjoy taunting me, don’t you” I bite my lip to suppress the grin I feel tugging at it, to leash the urge to close the distance between us and damn the consequences.</p><p>“I <em>love</em> taunting you” I hook my leg with his, bringing me ever closer. “It’s my new favorite pastime” And it is. I might be a flustered fool when it comes to some things—more emotionally intimate things—but this bit I know, this bit I can do. And I enjoy it.</p><p>“Is it now” He rasps, face nudging closer. I tighten my coil around his leg in answer. “Does tempting fate amuse you?”</p><p>“It does” I purr, lifting my chin to bring us even closer.</p><p>“You know fate bites back, right?” His mouth does a clear act of biting down on something as he finishes that last word, his teeth grinding together as they clash on the T sound.</p><p>“And still I’ve yet to be bit” A dark, airy laugh rumbles out of his chest.</p><p>“Would you like to be?” My toes curl, blood rushes with heat.</p><p>“Is that an offer?” His hand lets go of mine, trails a jagged path up my arm.</p><p>“It could be” He purrs once he reaches my shoulder, thumb reaching out to the edge between leather and skin at my throat. I shiver at the feel of that rough skin as it brushes along mine, my feather’s rustling behind me.</p><p>“And if I were to accept?” I ask breathlessly, my breaths coming in short pants as my racing heart demands more and more air to clear the lusting haze in my head.</p><p>“You’d have to be very, <em>very</em> quiet” His hand trails up to tip my head deeper into the furs, exposing my neck. “And stay <em>perfectly</em> still” He slowly leans in—closing the minimal distance between us—and I spread wide for his taking, arching my neck in invitation.</p><p>Yet he stops, right before my pulse, his parted lips blowing plumes of hot air against my skin, each gust sending sparks of lightning through my every nerve, the bond between us humming and singing its siren song, urging us on.</p><p>Waiting for permission. Verbal confirmation.</p><p>I debate waiting, to see how far his limits stretch—how taut I can stretch his leash—but with how want thrums in my blood, it feels like I’d be torturing myself as much as I’d be torturing him. And his back can’t be enjoying this, even if he’s adamant about ignoring it’s aches.</p><p>“Go ahead” I breathe, and he pounces.</p><p>My gasp catches in my throat as I recall his terms, body locking into perfect stillness as his teeth lodge into my throat, right around my throbbing pulse, sending spears of searing wildfire down into my core. Yet it’s not harsh, the bite, not as I anticipated. But I think it too soon as he a heartbeat later digs his teeth in deeper, my breath quivering as a pleasured whimper threatens to slip from my grasp.</p><p>He only hums, like he’s gorging on the finest of buffets, the vibrations traveling over into my body, threatening to shatter the stillness I’ve forced myself into.</p><p>His teeth dislodge, but I’m not given the chance to breathe as his tongue slips out to smooth over the dents his teeth left behind, especially those his canines buried deep into my flesh.</p><p>He’s thorough about it, very, each sweep a careful caress. A taunt. Payback for my own teasing. Deliberate attempts to make me fail to meet his terms. But I neither move or break my oath of silence. I hardly even breathe, yet couldn’t care less about the growing haze in my head.</p><p>There’s only desire and pleasure and need in my blood, and his touch feeds its flame.</p><p>And I need more.</p><p><em>Do it again</em>. I write out before him, hoping he can see it where he’s buried in my neck, and I can’t stop the gasp this time as his hand slips down to grasp my chest as well, tries to through the leathers, growling as the material does not yield to him, keeping the soft feel of me contained.</p><p>He pushes me back instead, onto my back, pinning my wings beneath me but I couldn’t care less as he slowly comes crawling after me, part of his weight settling over me as his teeth stay locked on my neck, his tongue there as well, lapping at my skin until I can’t help the whimpers, can’t keep from palming fistfuls of his tunic, yet still staying mindful of his tender back.</p><p>I feel like I’m dreaming, like I’m living the dream that once embarrassed and scared me, yet set me alight with longing. It feels too good to be true.</p><p>And it appears to be, as Az abruptly stops, head snapping up—which can’t be good for his back at all—and hones in on the tent entrance with lethal, predatory precision, something murderous clear in his eyes. It only thrills me more, makes my thighs clench as heat flares in me.</p><p>Then I’m consumed by shadow, whispering of threats and vile things,</p><p>“Fuck off, Cassian” I hear Azriel raps past it, or has he fully drenched the tent in darkness? “You’re supposed to be resting” Somehow, Azriel’s voice is even, the flames of desire honed to a blade of lethality.</p><p>“I am resting! I’m taking a stroll” That’s literally the opposite of resting. “Thought I’d be a good brother and check on you while I was around”</p><p>“I’m fine” He hisses. “<em>Leave</em>” If tone alone could slay, Cassian would drop dead where he’s stood. Wherever that is.</p><p>“Why are you hiding in the dark, Az? Did the beasts fuck up your face too?” A low growl rumbles in Azriel’s chest.</p><p>“Not worse than yours” Az tries to sound composed, but the growl still lines his voice. Cassian just laughs, but it's not quite as bright as it used to be.</p><p>“Alright, fine, you sound alive enough, I need get back to my tent before the healer gives me a lashing” I would laugh—be glad Cass still retains some of his lightheartedness in this mess—weren’t I so terribly annoyed with him.</p><p>Cassian’s faintly limping footsteps fade with time, but even once they’ve completely faded, the darkness lingers, until finally, it parts into dim daylight, revealing Azriel still laid partly atop me, eyes still honed on the entrance, as if he’s debating going after him and beating the shit out of him.</p><p>But then his eyes lower back to me, panting as silently as possible beneath him, keeping as still as I can.</p><p>I expect him to return to business—a part of me wants him to—but his head lowers to my chest and settles atop it instead, breathing a long, heavy and pained sigh. His aches having caught up with him, I presume. At first I don’t dare move, but then I slip a hand up into his hair, sensing the contentment from him as I comb through it as I did before, with just the occasional lingering lick of fire and hunger.</p><p>Enough play. For now.</p><p>I let it be so as I brush through his lovely hair, scraping ever so lightly at his scalp until he’s purring again, and I find myself content as well. Excited, but content to stay like this as well.</p><p>Before I fully give in to the allure of rest, I plant the softest kiss to his hairline, and his head nuzzles into me just a fraction in answer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Everything can't be fluff all the time, can it? I prefer a healthy mix with this two, especially knowing Azriel is a "Freak in bed" according to Sarah herself. And how's the male suppose to resist such a blatant invitation?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0052"><h2>52. Preserving</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite the comfort we find ourselves in—laid tangled there on the ground—Azriel eventually insists he get back to work, to make sure last night’s situation does not prompt Hybern to come charging north in retaliation. Despite my own view of the matter—my desire to keep him right where he is—I comply and help him to his chair. It worries me—how gray and colorless his face is, how tired his eyes are—but there’s nothing I can do to sway him to rest, not anymore. I can only make sure he’s taken care of.</p>
<p>If our mingling scents—what remains of our game—agitates my mate, he does not show it, not beyond his persistent gaze, trailing me as I move about to find the things he needs—the documents, maps—laying them out on the table before him.</p>
<p>Both to spare me and him from it’s taunting, I let a golden wind brush through the tent and gather as much of our scents as possible, storing it in a bubble in the corner for the time being. Because just sending it out into the open air of the war camp feels very counter productive in terms of keeping things private. I also make sure to take care of the bruise he’s left on me, illusioning it into smooth untouched skin to keep prying eyes away. It feels wrong to do so, but I still prefer that it stays private.</p>
<p>Azriel lays a hand over his documents to keep them from flying off on the wind, but beyond that, he does no comment on the act.</p>
<p>Unable to stop from worrying about the cold freezing over him—even if I know it’s a way to guard himself from the pain, to prepare for business—I step to his side, placing a gentle hand on his back and willing my power to soothe the worst of the pain. Dissolving some of my worry regarding our game—whether we perhaps went too far too soon—Azriel reaches his arm out to me and coils it around my waist, perching me on the armrest of his chair.</p>
<p>I smile, delight blossoming in my chest, warding off that wariness.</p>
<p>That delight is overcome by instinctual protectiveness once the first spies arrive to be given their tasks, Azriel having summoned them through a shadow, I presume. They pause their approach as they see me, not seated behind him, but at his side, wings flared in clear warning as I assess them with a lethal stare—warning to stay back or suffer the consequences.</p>
<p>Azriel doesn’t seem to care about his spies’ discomfort as he goes through the clear orders. In fact, he seems amused, something which would have relieved me if this overwhelming need to protect didn’t have such a hold of me at the minute. It's the bond, I assume. Working to make sure I keep Azriel safe in his weakened state. But Azriel’s been in more dangerous situations—has fought in <em>war</em> while I watched for goodness sake—yet the bond never felt as commanding then as it does now. Has felt all day.</p>
<p>Perhaps the difference is that Azriel’s actually hurt. Not merely in danger, but <em>hurt. </em>Enough so to be vulnerable should danger find it’s way in here.</p>
<p>Whatever the cause, I observe their every move—every breath—and only once they leave—once all teams have been sent out to their missions—do I feel any relief, my wings relaxing at my back. Azriel chuckles then, a low, raspy thing, laced with pain, but also some lightness, the latter of which gladdens me to hear again.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure they’ll be reporting back” He states, his voice a strange mix of pain and amusement.</p>
<p>“What for?” I ask innocently, trailing my hand up the back of his neck. His skin shifts into goosebumps. A shudder trails his spine.</p>
<p>“You know what for” He retorts, his grip of my waist tightening just a fraction.</p>
<p>“If they can’t handle a small Seraphim female, they can’t handle their jobs either” Azriel sighs, his weight shifting to lean against me, and I steady myself with a foot on the floor to stay balanced.</p>
<p>I expect him to say something, some dry, sarcastic retort, but he just stays there, head leaned against the side of my chest.</p>
<p>Tired. So tired. But so strong.</p>
<p>I brush my hand up into his hair again, and that rolling purr quickly reemerges, filling the silence around us.</p>
<p>Once his spies return—against all odds—Azriel subtly straightens in his seat, and I settle my hand at the base of his neck as he listens to their findings.</p>
<p>Nothing they say is assuring.</p>
<p>Hybern’s on the move. Moving east across the island. What for? We haven’t quite figured that out. But it warrants a meeting.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~O~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I bring Azriel to Rhys’ tent, and once Azriel has informed him of his findings, he reaches out to gather for a meeting, right here in his war-tent. I sit Azriel down on a chair in preparation for this meeting, but decide to remain stood at his side as we wait for the others to arrive.</p>
<p>It doesn’t take long for everyone to gather, cramming the space around the center table, a map of Prythian laid out before it.</p>
<p>High Lord Helion takes charge of this, sliding a concerning amount of figures down to the lower part of Prythian. Hyberns army, so much larger than our own, even with the Winter Court's army having joined us along with Day and Dawn.</p>
<p>It’s still not enough.</p>
<p>“My scouts say Hybern is on the move as of this afternoon” Helion states, and Azriel nods beside me.</p>
<p>“My spies say the same” His voice is still raw, hoarse, but managing. I debated offering him tea at one point, to help soothe the raps, but I wasn’t sure whether a beverage counts as offering food. I hope he doesn’t see it as inconsiderate of me. Helion’s amber eyes narrow.</p>
<p>“He shifted directions, though. He’d planned to move that army north—drive us back that way. Now he marches due east” But why? Rhys braces a hand against the table, leaning forward to study the map.</p>
<p>“So he’s now heading straight across the island—to what end? He would have been better off sailing around. And I doubt he’s changed his mind about meeting us in battle. Even with Tamlin now revealed as an enemy” I do not know the story behind Tamlin, why his reveal as an ally would warrant such a reaction as it has, but knowing he’s on our side in this is relieving, no matter his past wrongdoings.</p>
<p>I just want this to end.</p>
<p>“Losing Tamlin won’t cost him many troops, but Hybern could be going to meet another ally on the eastern coast—to rendezvous with the army of those human queens from the continent” Tarquin says with a frown.</p>
<p>Azriel shakes his head, wincing at the pain along his back, and I fight the urge to drag him back to his tent and force him to rest.</p>
<p>“He sent the queens back tot heir homes—and there they remain, their armies not even raised. He’ll wait to wield that host until he arrives on the continent” The fact that he doesn’t even <em>need</em> the queens’ armies to annihilate us…</p>
<p>“Perhaps he’s leading us on another chase” Kallias muses with a frown, his mate peering down at the map by his side.</p>
<p>"Not Hybern’s style” Mor says. “He doesn’t establish patterns—he knows we’re onto his first method of stretching us thin. Now he’ll try another way”</p>
<p>“Hybern is delaying the conflict” Helion murmurs. “Why?” I watch Feyre glance towards her sisters, seated a little ways away by faelight braziers.</p>
<p>“He doesn’t have the missing piece. Of the Cauldron’s power” She states, and Rhys head shifts, studies the map, then his mate’s sisters, then he speaks, pointing to a massive river on the map.</p>
<p>“Cassian. If we were to cut south from where we are now—to head right down to the human lands… would you cross that river, or go west far enough to avoid it?” Cassian lifts a brow, looking a lot healthier today than he did the day prior. Unlike his brother, who remains grayish, but holding on. Because of this morning, I'm still rather displeased with him, but maiming the male now would be counterproductive.</p>
<p>I watch an Illyrian male—a commander I think is called Devlon—move to speak in Cassian’s stead, but Cassian’s quicker.</p>
<p>“A river crossing like that would be time-consuming and dangerous. The river’s too wide. Even with winnowing, we’d have to construct boats or bridges to get across. And an army this size… We’d have to go west, then cut south—” Cassian’s face pales as his words trail off, a realization hitting him.</p>
<p>I look closer, at where Hybern now aims to march and… Oh, oh they’re going south, aren’t they.</p>
<p>“We wanted us exhausting ourselves on winnowing armies around” Helion says, continuing where Cassian left off. “On fighting those battles. So that when it counted, we would not have the strength to winnow past that river. We’d have to go on foot—and take the long way around to avoid the crossing” Had there been more of my kind here, we could have parted the waters and crossed that way, but… they’re not here, and I haven’t been able to find them.</p>
<p>But I feel like there’s something I’m missing, like I’m forgetting something. But what?</p>
<p>Tarquin swears, pausing my pondering.</p>
<p>“So he could march south, knowing we’re days behind. And enter the human lands with no resistance” To kill them all. All those helpless people.</p>
<p>“He could have done that from the start” Kallias counters. “Why now?” Nesta answers that question.</p>
<p>“Because we insulted him. Me—and my sisters” All eyes fall to her. Elain, shocked, puts a hand to her throat.</p>
<p>“He’s going to march on the human lands—butcher them. To spite us?” She breathes, appalled to say the least. The thought makes me queasy. Because the humans won’t stand a chance.</p>
<p>“I killed his priestess” Feyre mumbles. “You took from his Cauldron” She says to Nesta, then she looks to Elain. “And you… Stealing you back was the final insult”</p>
<p>“Only a madman would wield the might of his army just to get revenge on three women” Kallias states, and Helion snorts.</p>
<p>“You forget that some of us fought in the War. We know firsthand how unhinged he can be. And that something like this would be exactly his style” Unfortunately, he’s right.</p>
<p>Feyre and Rhys share a glance.</p>
<p>“He knows we’ll come” Rhys states.</p>
<p>“I’d say he’s assuming quite a lot about how much we care for humans” Helion says. Rhys shrugs.</p>
<p>“He’ll have seen our prioritizing of Elain’s safety as proof that the Archeron sisters hold sway here. He thinks they’ll convince us to haul our asses down there, likely to a battlefield with few advantages, and be annihilated” And that’s exactly what we’ll be doing, isn’t it.</p>
<p>“So we’re not going to?” Tarquin asks with a frown.</p>
<p>“Of course we’re going to” Of course we are. Rhys straightens, chin lifting. “We will be outnumbered, and exhausted, and it will not end well. But this has nothing to do with my mate, or her sisters. The wall is down. It is gone. It is a new world, and we must decide how we are to end this old one and begin it anew. We must decide if we will begin it by allowing those who cannot defend themselves to be slaughtered. If that is the sort of people we are. Not individual courts. We, as a Fae <em>people</em>. Do we let the humans stand alone?”</p>
<p>No, we don’t.</p>
<p>Even if… Even if it means the end, it will be like spitting on my people’s sacrifices in the War to let those humans die at Hybern’s hands. It will be like spitting on Jaxon’s grave, to sit idly by while those he fought to free from Fae cruelty die in this repetition of history.</p>
<p>“We’ll die together, then” Helion states.</p>
<p>“Good” Cassian says. “If I end my life defending those who need it most, then I will consider it a death well spent”</p>
<p>“So will I” Tarquin agrees.</p>
<p>I look down at Azriel, a subtle glance that hardly shifts my head, but he sees, he looks. Illusioning us into the still and observant image we presented before, I reach my hand out to trace his cheek. He only looks up at me with sad, apologetic eyes, and I return their sadness with some of my own before retracting my hand and returning my focus to the meeting, Kallias just now breaking the silence.</p>
<p>“We’ll need to leave by tomorrow if we are to stand a chance at staunching the slaughter”</p>
<p>“Sooner than that” Helion says, smiling. This hardly feels like the time for smiles. “A few hours” he jerks his chin at Rhys. “You realize humans will be slaughtered before we can get there”</p>
<p>“Not if we can act faster” Feyre says, I cast my High Lady a raised brow. “Tonight. We winnow—those of us who can. To human homes—towns. And we winnow out as many of them as we can before dawn” Mad, an utterly mad plan. Right up my alley. If only it didn’t require <em>nighttime</em>.</p>
<p>“And where would we put them?” Helion demands.</p>
<p>“Velaris”</p>
<p>“Too far” Rhys cuts in with a murmur, eyes assessing the map. “To do all that winnowing” Tarquin taps a finger on the map, on his territory.</p>
<p>“Then bring them to Adriata. I will send Cresseida back—let her oversee them”</p>
<p>“We’ll need all the strength we have to fight Hybern” Kallias says carefully. “Wasting it on winnowing humans—”</p>
<p>“It is no waste” Feyre cuts in with a lethal kind of calm. “One life might change the world. Where would you all be if someone had deemed saving my life a waste of time? She points to her mate. “If <em>he </em>had deemed saving my life Under the Mountain a waste of time? Even if it’s only twenty families, or ten… They are not a waste. Not to me—or to you” Kallias mumbles an apology.</p>
<p>Then my eyes snap to Amren, striding into the tent.</p>
<p>“I hope you all voted to face Hybern in battle” She states, and Rhys arches a brow her way.</p>
<p>“We did. Why?” Amren sets down the Book on the table with a thump.</p>
<p>“Because we will need a distraction” She smiles a grim smile Feyre’s way. “We need to get to the Cauldron, girl. <em>All</em> of us” All the Made Fae.</p>
<p>“You found a way to stop it?” Tarquin asks. Amren nods.</p>
<p>“Even better. I found a way to stop his entire army”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I rightfully credit Sarah for the main plot. It's important that I include it though, to make sure things make sense. </p>
<p>Have fun with what's to come.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0053"><h2>53. Before The End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rhys orders Azriel to stay while they winnow the humans—even if he insists he can travel through the shadows just fine—and while I wish to help them, there is little I can do in the cover of night, even with the moon bound to be nearly full tonight. Rhys tells me to stay and make sure Azriel gets the rest he needs, but I feel like… I feel like it’s more than just that. I Feel like Rhys is giving me one last night with him before it all goes to hell.</p>
<p>I don’t thank the male, but I think he knows I value the gift.</p>
<p>Madja arrives that evening, spending most of her stay in Azriel’s tent scolding him as she heals him back to decent health. Still hurt, but… Not as much. He's still not healed enough to fight tomorrow, to step onto that killing field and make it out alive, but from the sound of things, none of us will.</p>
<p>Once Madja leaves for the evening, Azriel remains sat on his desk, bare-chested as he stares down at the ground between us, I having lingered by the tent door to keep visitors barred entry during his session of healing.</p>
<p>The silence between us now is not calm, it is not comfortable. It is weighted by the promise of death. By words that remain unsaid.</p>
<p>Taking a deep breath—composing and steadying—I move to approach him, but only when my feet enter his line of sight does he lift his gaze to me, revealing the endless hopelessness in there, the same I feel inside myself.</p>
<p>I cup his cheeks, step close so his legs straddle me, then lower my brow to his.</p>
<p>I have no promises to give him. None I can make with clear conscience.</p>
<p>Azriel has no words either, only a gentle, hesitant embrace as his arms snake around my waist, pulling me in against him. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.</p>
<p>And we stay like that, even though I could easily slip down and kiss him, could easily take this further, continue our game from this morning. We could choose to spend this last night together in bliss, just to have experienced it once, but… If this is our last night together, I would rather have him hold me through it.</p>
<p>In another time, things would have been different.</p>
<p>In another time, I would have spent the night before doomsday in the arms of some faceless male and let his touch erase the thought of what was to come, have him make me forget all about it, if only for the moment.</p>
<p>But with Azriel, it’s different. He’s not a faceless male. He is not some means to an end. He is my mate, and I will not use him to forget the pain. I will endure the pain with him, and I will die happy knowing I got to meet him, that I got these moments in time with him.</p>
<p>My hand slips to his ear, to the feather still dangling there, smooth and soft as the day I gave it to him.</p>
<p>“Once death comes, I’ll be there with you” I breathe and the shadow around my wrist tightens its grip.</p>
<p>“And I with you” He murmurs, his voice a soft, lulling melody. I feel my throat contract, my eyes burn.</p>
<p>“I wish—” The words die on my tongue, crumble into a choked sob, and Azriel slips off of the table, my hands slipping down to his shoulders as one of his trail up to cradle my head, bringing me in against his chest as I struggle to breathe through the pain.</p>
<p>The pain of never getting to see the future we could have had, of never getting to experience what might have been, had there been more time.</p>
<p>I wish we'd had more time</p>
<p>He brings me to the furs, guides me there like a dance, and settles us both on that patch of softness together, letting one wing remain tucked in against his back, but the other drape over me like a blanket, his arms holding me close in the deepening darkness of dusk.</p>
<p>And they don’t let go. Neither of us let go.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~O~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I said <em>no</em>, Azriel” I watch my mate stiffen, his posture grow impossibly straight.</p>
<p>“I <em>can</em> fly, Rhys. I can fight in the legion” He insists.</p>
<p>“Madja says otherwise” Cassian cuts in, granting him a sharp glare.</p>
<p>“Then I’ll fight through the shadows”</p>
<p>“No” The word is an impassable command. “If you so much as <em>try,</em> I’ll chain you to a damn tree” Azriel’s wings flare ever so slightly at the challenge, as if to say he’d find a way to fly despite it, to fight no matter how they aim to stop him.</p>
<p>Sensing a needless fight, and understanding where this is coming from, I step in. Step close and twirl a wind along his clenched fists. It unfurls to let me weave it between his fingers as he looks at me, his—<em>our</em> family watching on as I hold his gaze, a bleary eyed Mor growing wide-eyed as all of the frozen rage melts from Azriel’s face, his features softening.</p>
<p>“We stay and observe, do what we can from afar” I hate it too, hate it just as much as he does. To be forced to watch as hell breaks lose. But I still have no solid place in either the areal legion or amongst the foot-soldiers, so I will assume my role as last resort alongside Azriel, no matter how it tears at me.</p>
<p>I retract the wind, and his fist clenches as if he might hold on to the remnants.</p>
<p>“We’ll be eyes and ears” He mumbles, begrudgingly complying. His eyes linger on me for a time, then shift over to Rhys again. “We’ll be eyes and ears only” Feyre looks surprised where she stands beside her equally surprised—though relieved—mate. Cassian looks like he doesn’t quite believe his ears, or eyes, but Amren casts me a look I can only describe as approving.</p>
<p>I cast my ancient friend a soft smile, then my eyes drift to Mor, and her bright brown eyes settle on mine.</p>
<p>There’s… I don’t know what her eyes hold, I can’t grasp it. She gulps, then looks away, her eyes holding thoughts I can’t process.</p>
<p>I decide to ignore it. Knowing what today holds, I decide to ignore her and Azriel's complicated relationship, especially as the long march south begins. The march that might as well be leading us to our doom.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>~O~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>We come to a brief midday break in a large meadow, filled with wildflowers and swaying green grass. A meadow bound to be trampled and destroyed by the time we’re done here.</p>
<p>I find a spot to enjoy the sunlight in—a rock draped in it’s warmth and shine—and I bask in it, my heart heavy knowing it might very well be the last time I get to do so.</p>
<p>Azriel is nearby, sulking in a shadow not far from me, still angered by his order not to fight, but he does not verbalize that anger.</p>
<p>We’re not far from the others, they all gathered outside a draped wagon I saw Nesta and Feyre enter a few moments ago, and the two sisters soon emerge form it in Illyrian leathers. Elain seems to pass on the leathers, and Viviane offers her an alternative she slips inside to change into.</p>
<p>I stand, intending to approach the group soon enough, and as if summoned, Azriel appears at my side, holding his obsidian-hilted knife in his hands, observing it closely, features conflicted.</p>
<p>“What is it?” I ask calmly, and Azriel breathes a slow breath.</p>
<p>“Elain told me something, a while back. I foolishly didn’t write to down, but…” He trails off, trying to recall the words. “She said she saw something end with the truth. Something about <em>her</em> wielding the truth. This blade is called Truth-Teller” His eyes drift to me then, just in time to watch my brows arch.</p>
<p>“You think she needs it?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, but on the off-chance that she does…” He looks back down at it, his eyes hesitant.</p>
<p>“Why do you hesitate?” He watches the dark, ancient steel in his hands, the runes inscribed along the spine.</p>
<p>“I haven’t let anyone touch this knife in half a millennia. It hasn’t left my hands”</p>
<p>“Are you scared to lose it?”</p>
<p>“I’m scared it’ll taint her. I’ve tortured many with this blade, I don’t want her to see it” I lay a hand on his forearm, as heavily armored as the rest of him.</p>
<p>“Elain is stronger than we give her credit for, she’d understand, if she were to see” He looks down at me, the conflict still clear in his eyes.</p>
<p>“The thought of torture doesn’t bother you?” I smile a pained smile.</p>
<p>“I’ve been on the giving end of that dance for longer than the receiving. I have no right to judge” I calmly return my hand to my side. “Give it to her, if you feel it’s right, if you think she might have use of it” He nods, once, faintly, then limps for our found-family, where Cassian is currently trying to give a much too dressed Elain a knife, the sight of which drains the color from her face.</p>
<p>I trail after him, watch as he pushes Cassian aside and presents his option.</p>
<p>“This is Truth-Teller” He tells her softly, and his eyes seem to search for a reaction in hers, some sign he’s doing the right thing giving this to her. “I won’t be using it today—so I want you to”</p>
<p>From my view partly behind, I watch the light shine through the membranes of his wings. I see the veins, the hues of red and gold clear amongst the near-black. Fresh pale scars trek down them now, but where appearance is regarded, he’s healed. The soreness lingers in him though, his newly healed flesh tender and fragile.</p>
<p>Against the brightness of the sun—the colorfulness of the meadow—he sticks out with his darkness, but he does not look out of place in his Illyrian armor, seven Siphons catching in the sunlight. He is just… A contrast. The darkness that gives light depth.</p>
<p>Elain watches the blade with wide eyes, scanning the dark hilt, the runes.</p>
<p>“It has never failed me once” Azriel continues. “Some people say it is magic and will always strike true” Carefully, he takes her hand and presses the hilt into her grasp. “It will serve you well”</p>
<p>“I—I don’t know how to use it—” Feyre steps closer, grass crunching beneath her feet.</p>
<p>“I’ll make sure you don’t have to” She says, and I watch Elain weigh he words, all their words, then closes her hand willingly around the blade’s grip.</p>
<p>I note Cassian gawking, and see hints of Rhys’s own surprise where he’s stood by the wagon, working to finish strapping on his weapons.</p>
<p>I’ve long since been ready, the blades at my back a comforting weight I might not need, but keep there just in case, the daggers at my belt as well.</p>
<p>Elain looks up at Azriel, locking her gaze with his, and I find myself wondering what she sees. If she sees and hears the many atrocities that knife has committed, or if she sees what it will in the future. From the unease fluttering down the bond, I assume Azriel’s thinking similarly.</p>
<p>Rhys soon joins our circle, his features strained. Weighted by the coming battle, surely.</p>
<p>I try my best to not think of last night as the last ever, but even if it was, spending it safely tucked in Azriel’s arms is far more precious than any alternative, and I will value it ‘til my final breath.</p>
<p><span>I note Mor arriving, clad in dark armor that doesn’t clash quite as sharply with her tanned and golden features as the black leathers clash with my whites and gentle golds. But much like with Azriel, I feel the dark does not look out of place, but rather accentuates the light. Mor is being given the same treatment. Amren… Her leathers ha</span><span>ve</span><span> to have been fashioned for a youngling. </span><span>I</span><span> mean, mine are small because I’m on the smaller side of things, especially compared to an Illyrian’s—or even Feyre’s and Mor’s and Nesta’s</span>—<span>but </span><span><em>Amren’s</em></span><span>. I don’t dare comment, lest I might just seal my own fate.</span></p>
<p>
  <span> All murmurs cease amongst ourselves as Rhys assesses us all, </span>
  <span>looks us all in the eyes</span>
  <span>, having wordlessly assembled here in a circle. The Court of Dreams. My Court. My chosen Court who chose me too, who accepted me with little question. My chosen family. </span>
  <span>My mate’s family.</span>
</p>
<p>“Do you want the inspiring talk or the bleak one?” He asks.</p>
<p>“We want the real one” Amren provides, and Rhys pushes back his shoulders, folding his wings in against his back.</p>
<p>“I believe everything happens for a reason. Whether it is decided by the Mother, or the Cauldron, or some sort of tapestry of Fate, I don’t know. I don’t really care. But I’m grateful for it, whatever it is. Grateful that it brought you all into my life. If it hadn’t… I might have become as awful as that prick we’re going to face today. If I had not met an Illyrian warrior-in-training” He looks to Cassian as he says the last bit. “I would not have known the true depths of strength, of resilience, of honor and loyalty” Cassian’s eyes are bright as he looks to his High Lord, then Rhys looks to Azriel, stood at my side. “If I had not met a Shadowsinger, I would not have known it is the family you make, not the one you were born into, that matters. I would not have known what it is to truly hope, even when the world tells you to despair” My chest contracts painfully at the words, at the thought of Azriel’s upbringing, but Azriel himself only bows his head in thanks—in gratitude—the back of his hand brushing along mine.</p>
<p>
  <span>He continues his speech, address Mor, Amren and Feyre, telling them all how they’ve helped him become the male he is, his gratitude showing through his every word. And then he looks to Elain, Nesta and I, expressing that while he has not known us long, he believes we were brought into this family for a reason, that today will reveal why. Though as he looks at me, I know that he’s well aware what part I play in this family, why Fate brought me into his Circle.</span>
</p>
<p>I only bow at his words, much like Azriel, and we all link hands—I with Azriel and Amren—until we’ve formed a physical circle.</p>
<p>“We will walk onto that field and only accept Death when it comes to haul us away to the Otherwold. We will fight for life, for survival, for our futures” I lift my chin a little higher, promising myself to do just that. “But if it is decided by the tapestry of Fate or the Cauldron or the Mother that we do not walk off that field…” Rhys lifts his chin too, even in the face of such a terrible outcome. “The great joy and honor of my life has been to know you. To call you family. And I am grateful—more than I can possibly say—that I was given this time with you all” I squeeze Azriel’s hand, hoping he feels it, knows what it means.</p>
<p>He squeezes right back.</p>
<p>“We are grateful, Rhysand” Amren says quietly. “More than you know” he smiles her way, and we all murmur our own agreements.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Then let’s go make Hybern very </span>
  <span>
    <em>un</em>
  </span>
  <span>grateful to have known us, too” I’ve never </span>
  <span>felt</span>
  <span> more inspired.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I wasn't going to post this today, but considering the chapters to come are all sections of the last battle, I figured I'd post this now so the next couple days can be all death and destruction.</p>
<p>You'll have a good time, I think. </p>
<p>But it's taking me a lot longer to write the battle than I thought it would. Hopefully I'll be able to keep up with a chapter a day, at least. Not many left, though.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0054"><h2>54. Finality</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welcome to the beginning of the end. Can't believe I've gotten this far already</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We can all scent the salt on the breeze long before the battlefield spreads out before us. It’s a vast grassy plain reaching all the way to the sea, his army planted a considerable distance inland, and what a behemoth of an army it is.</p><p>Even though I saw it—saw it as Feyre saw it when they spied on the Cauldron—I still cannot fully comprehend the sheer size of this force, this dark mass of death that spreads as far as my eyes can reach, up the rocky foothills as well as the sloping plains.</p><p>Sloping to our disadvantage.</p><p>He’s picked well, this madman.</p><p>We watch, Azriel and I, from this broad knoll overlooking the field, Rhys, Feyre and Amren there with us, Elain and Nesta close by as well. Watch our distant front lines, approaching the opposing force. High Lord Helion orders to halt, and the mass of our army heeds it, a mass that’s so terribly meek compared to the one we are to face.</p><p>The mass <em>they</em> are to face, Azriel and I both cursed to watch the slaughter. But at least we’ll share the guilt, should we live long enough to feel the true weight of it.</p><p>Said looming force remains stationary on the other end of the plains, waiting, but ready.</p><p>Cassian lands a couple steps away, having scouted the battlefield himself in the wake of Azriel’s earth-bound state.</p><p>His words about being down to earth came and bit him in the ass, didn’t it.</p><p>“The prick took every inch of high ground and advantage he could find. If we want to rout them, we’ll have to chase them up into those hills. Which I have no doubt he’s already calculated. Likely set with all kinds of surprises” I slip out to have a closer peek, keeping a foot where I’m stood as I observe the army, the clear disadvantages we face, just as Cassian said.</p><p>This will not end well.</p><p>“How long do you think we have?” Rhys asks, his voice distant, but I retreat back into myself quick enough to hear Cassian’s answer with clarity.</p><p>“We have five High Lords, and there’s only one of him. You could shield us for a while. But it might not be in our best interest to drain every one of you like that. He’ll have shields, too—and the Cauldron. He’s been careful not to let us see the full extent of his power. I have no doubt we’re about to, though” Definitely.</p><p>“He’ll likely be using spells” Feyre says.</p><p>“Make sure Helion is on alert” Azriel states, limping his way closer to his brother’s side. I leash the urge to trail him like a lost puppy. “And Thesan”</p><p>“You didn’t answer my question” Rhys says to Cassian rather than acknowledging my mate’s words, though I’m sure he intends to heed them. Cassian gives Hybern’s army a long assessment, then our own.</p><p>“Let’s say it goes badly. Shields shattered, disarray, he uses the Cauldron… A few hours” I quell the unease in me, work to keep my breathing even and my emotions as numbed as I can manage. Azriel looks to Feyre, seeing something in her face that I cannot from here.</p><p>“My shadows are hunting for it” He says, referring to the Cauldron. I intended to search too, but the thought of the King being ready for me… The thought of the Cauldron seeing me peaking and alerting him bothers me.</p><p>There are ways he could trap me. Could trap my mind away from my body by warding the space I’m in mentally, and I cannot afford that, not now.</p><p>Azriel was supposed to be searching too, in shadow form, but the both of us have been reduced to this now—I voluntarily to keep him safe. Perhaps a selfish act on my part, but should the need come, I will fight, and I’m sure he’ll find a way to be free form the chains and fight as well, should he push Rhys about the subject again.</p><p>His wings flare ever so slightly, then settle at his back again.</p><p>“But the wards are strong—no doubt reinforced by the king after you shredded through his at the camp. You might have to go on foot. Wait until the slaughter starts getting sloppy” Azriel continues, and Cass dips his chin at Amren.</p><p>“You’ll know when” She nods sharply, crossing her arms before her chest. Then Cass claps Rhys’ shoulder. “On your command, I’ll get the Illyrians into the skies. We advance on your signal after that” Rhys nods, the act distant, his mind still fixed elsewhere to an extent.</p><p>Cassian steps back, looks to Nesta, seems to debate whether to say anything, but ultimately decides against it as he shoots into the sky with a powerful flap of his wings.</p><p>“I can fight on foot” Azriel tries again, unable to resist the pull to enter this slaughter, to help our family through this.</p><p>“No” Rhys tone leaves no room for argument Had Rhys said yes, I would have fought on foot with Azriel as well, no matter what he would have said about it.</p><p>Az looks to be debating whether to push or not, but a look from Amren makes him back down, and I step up to his side as shadows curl at his hands, coiling around his fingers.</p><p>Together, stood in perfect silence, we watch our army settle into neat, solid lines. Watch the Illyrians take to the skies as Rhys gives that voiceless command to Cassian, forming mirroring lines above as well. Siphons of red, blue and green glint in the sunlight, flaring as shields lock into place, both of magic and metal. Each step closer to the behemoth of an army can be felt through tremors in the earth bellow us.</p><p>It’s almost as if the world itself frets for what’s to come. The slaughter that’s about to stain this land.</p><p>I do not look at Azriel, for I do not think I could bare it, were I to. Would not be able to stay strong were I to find that same hopelessness I found in them the night before. But I brush my hand against his, and do not resist as he hooks a finger onto one of my own.</p><p><em>If we survive this</em> . I write for him and him alone. <em>I want to </em> <em>stay right by</em> <em> your side. </em> His finger tightens it’s coil around mine. And so I continue, knowing these words need to be said, but will have to be written instead. <em>I want to taunt and clean and care for you for the rest of my </em> <em>life</em> <em>.</em> It grants me the full grip of his hand, his fingers weaving with my own. He squeezes, thumb brushing along my hand, and I take a long, deep breath, breathing in his lovely scent one last time.</p><p>My brows raise as a shadow curls before me, drawing out shapes. Letters.</p><p><em> So do I </em>. My chest tightens, and I grip his hand tighter, my breathing quivering for just a moment.</p><p>Tarquin barks an order far ahead, and the unified army of Prythian halts. Well, the unified army of Winter, Day, Dawn, Summer and Night, each force marked by their alteration in armor and color. I watch a legion of Peregryn ascend to join the Illyrian ranks—a descendant race of my people—their golden armor in clear contrast with the darkness of the Illyrians.</p><p>Autumn has not come, and Spring has not either.</p><p>Despite our clear preparation, Hybern does not advance, does not move, their stillness a tactic to unnerve. The waiting game has begun.</p><p>“Magic first” Amren explains to Nesta, who I suppose asked. “Both sides will try to bring down the shields around the armies” And as if her words had been their cue to begin, the shattering of shields ensues.</p><p>All High Lords unleash their powers upon Hybern’s shields, all but Rhysand. His power will be saved for after the walls come down, and I assume Hybern plans to save his true might ‘til then as well.</p><p>Both sides suffer losses, shields faltering and troops dying in the wake of it, but not nearly enough to make a considerable difference on either side. The most notable thing that happens is the grass withering, crumbling to ashes.</p><p>“I forgot how boring this part is” Amren mutters.</p><p>Rhys casts her a dry, unamused look, then prowls to the edge of our outlook, sensing this stalemate coming to an end and preparing to unleash himself on the army once the moment arises. Azriel and I follow, prepared to help from afar if not in the heart of battle. Feyre comes too, stepping up beside her mate as the shields waver at last. I let golden wind coil at my fingertips, preparing to lash it out like a whip come the time, to let spears of it impale or tear into their lungs and shred them. Azriel’s siphons gleam as he prepares to scorch them with cobalt flame.</p><p>Feyre begins talking, about her lack of a mating gift, a moment between the two that I don’t particularly pay any mind as I focus on the wavering shields before us. But then a cloud of darkness appears in the front of the battlefield, writhing and whirling.</p><p>“Mother above” Azriel breathes, voicing what I cannot say, words lost to me, especially as a second being appears beside the living beast of darkness.</p><p>Both armies pause in their surprise.</p><p>I don’t even know what those beings <em> are </em>, but I know they’re powerful, feel it in the air, the thrum of their power.</p><p>Our High Lady has been scheming in secret, it seems.</p><p>And it has the wanted effect, Hybern’s troops scrambling to reassess their foes, the new ones now stood before them.</p><p>Moments later, another being joins the field, another being whose power makes the world pulse. Rhys little surprise, from what I catch past my personal shock. And moments later, those three creatures unleash themselves upon Hybern’s forces.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0055"><h2>55. Ashes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I can hardly believe my eyes as I watch the bodies pile up in their wake, some mere husks of armor, drained of their very life essence. </span>
  <span>I don’t have time to truly behold the sight though, as Rhys extends his hand towards Hybern’s army—brought to disarray in the wake of those </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>His finger points, and obsidian power erupts into the world, leaving a section of our enemies nothing but mist on the wind. Red mist and metal shavings where they’d once been.</p>
<p>The blow did well to split the army in two.</p>
<p>Azriel slams his cobalt flames into one of the now exposed flanks in that divide, and I spear my golden air into the other, successfully dividing the mass further.</p>
<p>It leaves me out of breath, but I do not falter, not for a moment, not with Azriel’s hand still clutching my own.</p>
<p>The Illyrians move then, Rhys’ blast having been their signal, but as they shoot down from the skies, an aerial legion of Hybern’s own making shoots into the air, made up of vile beasts I recall from my time spent in his palace. Siphons flare, shields locking into place, and the Illyrians skillfully rain arrows onto our enemies with deadly precision, into those airborne faeries.</p>
<p>However, they retaliate with a flurry of their own, with arrows made of ash and tipped with feabane rock. Even with the antidote we’ve all been given, the effect doesn’t shield our cast magic, leaving the siphon shields useless against the stone, the arrows cutting through them like a hot knife cuts through butter.</p>
<p>
  <span> Some fall quickly because of this, others realize the threat and use their metal shields instead, unhooking </span>
  <span>it form their backs.</span>
</p>
<p>Tarquin, Helion and Kallias’s soldiers begin their terrestrial charge, and Hybern releases their hounds and other vile beasts. As the two armies barrel for one another, Rhys shoots another blast, followed by a wave of Tarquin’s power, the act efficiently shoving Hybern’s troops into uneven groups.</p>
<p>
  <span> And those </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span> our High Lord and High Lady brought to the field, they… They keep tearing into our enemies with a lethal ease that unnerves even me. They are not normal beings, they are beyond even Fae might.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Our own forces do not balk from them, however, something I must praise them for, and as the two armies clash, those </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span> do not turn on us. </span>
  <span>They k</span>
  <span>eep shredding into Hybern’s lines and only Hybern’</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>To watch this—to hear as the armies collide and not be a part of the slaughter—it irks me to my core. Cassian is out there, leading the Illyrians. Mor is out there, fighting alongside the High Lord of Winter’s mate. And we? We’re watching it all unfold. It makes me feel sick, but if I go in there, Azriel will get himself killed insisting to follow.</p>
<p>Perhaps it’s selfish, but I can’t lead him to his death. I can’t.</p>
<p>
  <span> I do what I can to help though, leave patches of Hybern’s forces in disorienting darkness only they can see, </span>
  <span>or blind them with light</span>
  <span>. </span>
  <span>I t</span>
  <span>urn some of their own into some of ours </span>
  <span>to trick them into killing themselves. It doesn’t do much, but it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s something.</span>
</p>
<p>“It’s already getting messy” Amren says, even if our lines are holding, especially the Illyrians and Peregryns.</p>
<p>“Not yet” Rhys says. “Much of the army isn’t even engaged past the front lines. We need Hybern’s focus elsewhere” Which would be Rhys joining the battlefield.</p>
<p>But no matter how the otherworldly beings carve into Hybern—and our own forces hold as steady as can be expected—many die, especially on our side, skewered by the volleys of faebane-tipped arrows.</p>
<p>“This will be over before we can even walk down this hill” Amren snaps.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Not yet</span>
  </em>
  <span>—” Rhys growls back at her. The</span>
  <span>n</span>
  <span> a horn blares in the north.</span>
</p>
<p>Everything—all the fighting—seems to pause to look.</p>
<p>Coming over the northern hill are three armies, one bearing the burnt-orange of Autumn, the other the grass-green of Spring, and the last is a host of mortal men in iron armor, bearing a flag of cobalt and a striking badger. Lord Nolan and Graysen’s household crest.</p>
<p>A male I recognize from the meeting—saw Azriel attempt to strangle—appears on the knoll with us, clad in silver armor and a red cape. Azriel’s shadow deepen around us, but he does not say anything, does not move a muscle. Rhys snarls though, but the male only lays a hand on the pommel of his sword and speaks.</p>
<p>“We thought you might need some help” And those armies have indeed come to help, are charging and winnowing and blasting for Hybern’s ranks. And in the mess I spot Jurian, leading the human army, just like centuries ago.</p>
<p>The same man I remember, then. Just a tad bit crazier, I’d assume.</p>
<p>But Autumn came. The Court Azriel said might not. They are here, fighting for us.</p>
<p>There might still be hope for us all.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Tamlin made him” The male says, having read a silent question in our eyes, I assume. “Dragged my father out by his neck” He smiles a half smile. “It was delightful. </span>
  <span>Tamlin wants orders, Jurian does too”</span>
</p>
<p>“And what of your father?” Rhys asks, voice low.</p>
<p>“We’re taking care of a problem” Is all the male says before pointing towards his father’s army.</p>
<p>A High Lord’s son.</p>
<p>Azriel tried to strangle a High Lord’s son.</p>
<p>I’m smiling, internally, and my amusement seems to baffle my mate, as hints of his confusion travels down the bond. I don’t offer him an explanation.</p>
<p>Because I spot what I assume is his family currently lighting Hybern’s troves of faebane on fire, turning it to nothing but ashes. Every single one of them, and doing it with a precision that can only mean… Jurian told them where they’d be.</p>
<p>
  <span> It seems now is the time for Amren’s plan to be executed, as the small creatures begins to usher the three sisters down towards that battlefield, </span>
  <span>a short, muttered conversation passing between her, Feyre and Rhys before they begin to descend from the knoll</span>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Azriel lets go of me then, prepared to </span>
  <span>help shield them with shadows as they make their way through the chaos of battle. I prepare to do the same, honing my mind on them and them alone as they prepare to enter the mess.</span>
</p>
<p>But they don’t get far.</p>
<p>Nesta stumbles, taking Amren down with her as she tries to stay upright, and for a second I think she’s been struck by a stray arrow. In that same second Rhys has already reached them, but we all seem to realize the same thing at the same time.</p>
<p>The Cauldron. Hybern is rousing the Cauldron.</p>
<p>Peering out into the light, I see it too, see the light quiver in the wake of what’s to come.</p>
<p>I absently note the Autumn male winnow away, watch Nesta hurl her guts up in the grass, feel Rhys magic lock around our troops and I retreat into my body to help him and Azriel do it, to add another layer to the shield, even if it scrapes my magic thin. So, so thin.</p>
<p>Then Nesta’s screaming, but not in pain. No, just a name. Over and over.</p>
<p>Cassian, over and over, scrambling to her feet as if to get to him, as if she aims to launch into the sky, but her body lurches and falls back to the ground.</p>
<p>Through some miracle, a red-siphoned Illyrian comes spearing for us, just as the earth itself shudders, quakes in the wake of what Hybern unleashes.</p>
<p>Death-white light hurls for our army, originating from a rocky outcrop on the other side of the battlefield—an outcrop leaving it leveled with the Illyrian legions—and as Hybern’s own aerial legion drops to avoid the blast, it leaves our own exposed.</p>
<p>
  <span> It shreds through both Azriel and I’s shields like nothing, then Rhysand's, and then all Siphon-made shields on that battlefield. </span>
  <span>It hollows out my ears and burns into my skin—my blood—filling my well of light with something that should </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> be there, with a light so bright it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Seems to scald me from within.</span>
</p>
<p>My legs buckle, bringing me down to my hands and knees as I pant, staring down at my gloved hands, sheathed in a layer of white light. My whole <em>body</em> is radiating that deathly-white light.</p>
<p>No. It's still absorbing it.</p>
<p>Straining to raise my head, to look out across the field, I find nothing but ashes falling where there had once been a thousand soldiers, and in the chaos, Cassian flaps, torn between coming our way or repairing the torn army he’d flown from.</p>
<p>He’d narrowly escaped the blast. All because Nesta—</p>
<p>
  <span> A</span>
  <span>n unsteady </span>
  <span>hand pulls me back to my knees, wills me to look at them, hazel eyes searching my face. I can’t speak, my throat dry as a desert once I try, but Azriel pulls me to my feet, backs us away from the ledge a couple </span>
  <span>stumbling</span>
  <span> paces, his arms all that’s keeping me from crumbling as the light continues to burn into me.</span>
</p>
<p>But it seems to settle, slowly, the glow of my body fading<span>—</span>returning me back to normal<span>—</span>and soon enough it feels bearable to move again. But the light stored within me is not normal, and what I'll be able to do with it… It will not be normal either.</p>
<p>
  <span>Nesta moans her dismay again, another blast coming, and a shield of cobalt quickly locks around us both, and a warning from Rhys has the other High Lords shielding their troops as well this time.</span>
</p>
<p>But the Cauldron does not blast the same place twice. No, it blasts it own damn army. Blasts that creature Feyre brought here, wearing the skin of an Illyrian male. And that otherworldly presence is erased in a scorch of pure white death.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'll post the rest of the battle tomorrow. It'll be three chapters for you lot to enjoy.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0056"><h2>56. Vessel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>I thought </span><em><span>I </span></em><span>was the light at the end of the tunnel. But </span><em><span>that</span></em><span>—that horrible blast of white death—that’s what the true light of death looks like. </span>And a portion of it has soaked into my being, hardly willing to remain contained in my well, but yielding, reluctantly.</p>
<p>
  <span> My magical overseers always speculated that if done right, I could bend light into a beam of death itself, could bend the light to incinerate any</span>
  <span>thing</span>
  <span> in it’s path. </span>
</p>
<p>I could never do it right.</p>
<p>
  <span> But this light—</span>
  <span>t</span>
  <span>his disgusting light that feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> within me—</span>
  <span>it</span>
  <span> was born for that exact purpose. It wants out, and it wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I leash it for the time being as I watch the remaining Illyrians and Peregryns scramble to restore the hole that blast left behind, the two legions fully intertwined now. </span>
</p>
<p>We’re holding on, but if the Cauldron deals another blow… We would not be able to take it, another blast of such power.</p>
<p>“Are you okay?” Azriel rasps, his arm still firmly around my waist, another at my shoulder, keeping me upright with him. I nod, because I can’t find words, struggle to regain moisture down my throat to voice anything at all.</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I absorbed some of the light</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I sign, using the light around us rather than that within me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>From the Cauldron. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Azriel’s eyes are wide as they look down at me. I meet his shocked gaze. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It burnt, but it’s okay.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He nods, hesitantly, but then Cassian lands with the other’s and his attention shifts form me to him instead, then the shambled lines in the sky. </span>
</p>
<p>I know what he’s thinking, and with the light of death pulsing in my veins, I’m thinking the same thing.</p>
<p>He begins moving us towards the others without another word, getting us within earshot of them again in time to hear Rhys order Cassian back into the skies.</p>
<p>
  <span> “What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> can we do against that?” Cassian bares his teeth at Rhys.</span>
</p>
<p>“We’re going in” Azriel states, his grip of me easing to merely a hand at my back, guiding me along. And he says we because…</p>
<p>We die together. We fight together and we die together.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>No” Rhys snaps, but Azriel spreads his wings, spreads them out wide behind him—behind me. I faintly flare mine to show our High Lord my agreement with my mate.</span>
</p>
<p>“Chain me to a tree, Rhys” Azriel says softly, tone lethal. “Go ahead” he continues, checking the buckles of his blades, making sure they’re secure. I do the same. “I’ll rip it out of the ground and fly with it on my damned back” And I don’t doubt that he would. He’d find a way to do it.</p>
<p>Rhys just stares at us both, though mainly at Azriel, at the scars marring his wings, barely healed. Then he looks to the decimated forces out in that field, the ashes of the dead still falling like snow on the wind. And the battle bellow is shifting in Hybern’s favor, his forces pushing ours back by the second, overwhelming us, even with the combined might of seven High Lords on our side.</p>
<p>There won’t be much left soon. Even if Amren and Feyre get to the Cauldron and stops Hybern’s army. There won’t be much left.</p>
<p>But I will fight on the off-chance that we make it. That by some miracle, we come out of this alive.</p>
<p>I will fight, and so will Azriel.</p>
<p>
  <span> Another horn sounds, from the sea. Looking its way, I know it’s not the arrival of allies, but the rest of Hybern’s army. His armada, </span>
  <span>leaving us trapped between the two forces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> My stomach drops, </span>
  <span>twists and threatens to spill on the grass</span>
  <span>, but I stay stood where I am, pose to take to the skies the moment Rhys makes up his damned mined. </span>
  <span>I will not hesitate this time. I will fight ‘til death claims me. But until then. I’ll be death itself. A vessel of its will.</span>
</p>
<p>Amren swears.</p>
<p>“We might need to run, Rhysand. Before they make landfall” Because we can barely fight one army. Fighting two isn’t an option at all. A silent conversation seems to pass between Rhys and Feyre, then he looks to us both.</p>
<p>“Azriel” His voice is quiet as he addresses him. Hoarse. “You lead the remaining Illyrians on the northern flank” His eyes move to me. “Estelle—help him” Neither of us hesitate, don’t say a single goodbye as we shoot into the sky, I aiding Azriel’s still-healing wings by crafting an updraft as we soar for the scrambled lines of the north flank.</p>
<p><span> I draw my blade</span><span>s</span><span>, well aware that </span><em><span>leading</span></em><span> a force was never my </span><span>expertise—</span><span>my job to guide them to the battles and oversee their outcomes more often than fighting in the legions themselves due to my </span><span> abilities </span><span>more suited </span><span>for</span><span> assassin work—but there </span><span>is</span> <span>an</span><span>other ways to lead a force of warriors than by barking orders. </span></p>
<p>You can lead by example.</p>
<p>I will kill to inspire others to kill, and Azriel will do what he’s trained his entire life to do and fight amongst the legion.</p>
<p>
  <span> Giving the light within me a curious nudge, I feel how it stirs, eager to be unleashed. </span>
  <span>And as Azriel and I reach the front lines, I give it what it wants.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0057"><h2>57. Ruined</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first blast is wild—unhinged and wasteful—but it tears through these winged faeries of Hybern with such ease it makes up for it, kills dozens of them upon impact, leaving a gaping hole through their chests as a neat line of them tumble to the earth bellow.</p><p>I only feel Azriel’s awe and surprise for a heartbeat before I engage in physical combat, swiping at my enemies with practiced ease, using the light around me to bend myself behind them and stab them in the back, cut off their wings, slice open their throats. I leave a downpour of bodies in my wake as I work my way along the front lines, staying close enough to Azriel that I can easily see him in the chaos, but not restricting myself to only fighting at his side.</p><p>I go where our army needs the most help, I kill a section of our enemies, then I move on to another section and kill there, it all turning into a rhythm of death as natural as breathing.</p><p>That rhythm is disrupted by a melodic blare of synchronized horns from the horizon, different from Hybern’s fleet.</p><p>Only for a heartbeat do I look to their source, and what I see makes my breath catch in my throat.</p><p>An armada baring a mismatch of banners, far grander than Hybern’s fleet. And above them, a legion of winged soldiers soar, thousands upon thousands of them.</p><p>My people.</p><p>There’s no time to feel, to react. There’s only killing and I do it swiftly, unleashing beams of that deadly light as sparingly as I can, the act growing more controlled by the moment, piercing bodies by the tenfold each turn. I don’t only rely on the light and my blades though. The little that remains of my golden wind is cast into my enemies and tears them to shreds from within, and my illusions continue to confuse and disorient, sometimes shrouding me in invisibility, sometimes blocking out the sight for a section of my enemies to leave them as easy pickings for my Illyrian and Peregryn allies. And sometimes, I make duplicates of myself and bend between their shapes to confuse my enemies, sometimes being in one place, but in another once they realize which one is the real me.</p><p>It’s like a dance, and I dance it well, sometimes find myself dancing it together with Azriel as I pass him and leave a trail of death behind me, a trail of death that rivals his own, his shadows and power and blade doing well for himself despite the state of his wings.</p><p>When the Seraphim join the fighting, I don’t acknowledge them. I soar amongst them, cut my way through enemies and focus on doing as much damage as I can—even if it doesn’t always involves killing things myself. They watch me though, I see it in the corner of my eye as I happen to pass. They see me, watch me as if they’re looking at a ghost, but as I let out a blast of white death—killing so many in the blink of an eye—they realize it’s much worse than that.</p><p>They’re looking at a vessel of Death.</p><p>Their attention is nothing to me—nothing but needless distraction—and I do not let it sway my mind, especially as arrows fall in a volley around me, forcing me to bend between them as best I can—as I lack a shield to block with.</p><p>Stupid to not bring one, but it’s too late for that now.</p><p>A couple cut through my wings, though the feathers, bringing a couple down with them, but all in all they do not wound me. Beyond the minor cuts I suffer in momentary lapses of luck, I do alright, do my best to continue to do alright, but the deadly light in me is quickly dwindling into nothing, leaving that out of the picture from now on.</p><p>I survived the last war without it, I can survive this one without it as well.</p><p>Maybe I’ll learn to replicate it one day, but for now I’ll do without it. It's served it's purpose.</p><p>What I had back then that I do not have now is my full physical strength, and I feel the weight of that fact in every flap of my wings—in every swipe of my blades—my muscles tiring faster than this is bound to end.</p><p>Azriel’s slowing too, his pain turning him sluggish no matter how he tries to ignore it, and as we both tire further and further, we sway closer and closer to the other. Try to, at least.</p><p>Even with the Seraphim and that armada they flew with, things are not going well. But we keep fighting, because there’s simply no other option. No other option I’ll accept, not yet.</p><p>The light of death might have left my veins—I may no longer be a vessel of its might—but I will not accept it’s embrace of oblivion just yet. Not yet.</p><p>So I fight, feel the rousing of the Cauldron once more and brace for that white light, search for where it might strike, only to find that it isn’t coming from the Cauldron at all. But Nesta.</p><p>There’s no time to question it, wonder <em> why </em> she’s there, I can only accept it and hope they know what they’re doing. I feel the bursts of power in her direction, worry gnawing at my bones at the thought of her fighting, <em> wielding </em> that otherworldly power dwelling within her, and it throws me off enough to miss it.</p><p>The thing hurling for me.</p><p>The spear tipped in faebane.</p><p>By the time I <em> do </em> see it hurling for me in my peripheral, my evasion comes too late, and it cuts right through my side in an agonizing rip of flesh. My right hand drops it’s blade as I clutch my side, instantly met with raw flesh and sticky, hot blood.</p><p>I only feel Azriel’s distress for a moment before a wicked, winged creature is upon me, blade aiming to end me once and for all, but through some miracle—a burst of adrenaline—I manage to raise my left blade and block his strike, manage to flap my wings and use the upwards momentum to kick him in the stomach, pushing the creature back for a moment.</p><p>But another comes, a smaller creature bearing no weaponry beyond it’s razor sharp claws that strike for my face, scratching deep gashes from my left brow to my jaw, narrowly clawing out my eye in the process, disorienting me as the blood obscures my vision.</p><p>Yet I swing. I swing for the bastard and manage to hit, only for another to latch onto my right wing, ripping into the flesh of my limb and holding its grip no matter how I flap and bank and try to shake the damned thing off of me.</p><p>I glimpse Azriel for a heartbeat, trying to get through his own horde of foes to help me, his desperation a loud roaring in my head.</p><p>Using a burst of air, I manage to shake myself free from the cretin, bending out of the swarm in hopes of finding a moment to breathe, to make a bandage of air against the gaping wound in my side—a mere graze compared to what could have been, yet still dangerous if left unattended—but my attempted escape does not bring me to safety, but into the path of a bloody sword.</p><p>It hits my wing on the down-swipe—just before it was bound to go for another round—nicking the middle arch of my limb. The pain is enough to unbalance me, enough to render my wing useless as I tumble trough the sky, desperately flapping my lightly damaged right wing as I try to level out and glide, my wounded left one spread wide in an attempt to catch the breeze, to catch <em> anything </em>.</p><p>But much like the day I escaped Hybern, my tired, wounded wings are useless as I plummet through the air, doing little to soften my fall as I hit the bloody field bellow, crashing into the lifeless bodies left in the wake of the two armies.</p><p>A clear snap echoes through my body as I hit the harsh ground, my scream of agony strangled by the sheer pain burning through my system.</p><p>Because the moment I realized there was no stopping my fall—my wind too depleted to help me—I tried to fold my wings in around myself on instinct, and now I lay on the broken remnants of my right one, my left bent oddly where it’s spread out beside me.</p><p>And the pain. Mother above, words cannot describe it.</p><p>It’s everywhere. Pulsing through my wings, into my back, down my spine, gathering in my left side and stinging its way across my face.</p><p>For a long time, it doesn’t let me breathe, doesn’t let me hear or think or see. And it feels like I’m drowning, sinking in this sea of death and decay, the world around me fading as darkness begins to consume my senses.</p><p>Then there’s a tug, a pull at my being so desperate and distraught it reminds of the living, reminds me of Azriel somewhere above me, looking for me.</p><p>I tug back, the act meek and weak as I chip for breath, a hand of mine clawing at the bloody earth I lay upon, as if I might drag myself out of this ocean of death just as I swam to those rocks the night I escaped.</p><p><em> Azriel </em>. My mind chants his name. Over and over. Calling him to me. And a pair of legs soon land before me, their knees adorned with cobalt siphons, dull and powerless as he strides to me, eyes wild as he crouches down before me and takes my cheeks in his hands. They look to my wings, to the one bent wrong on my left, and the right one shattered beneath my own weight.</p><p>I have never seen him so pale.</p><p>Then light erupts across the battlefield and shifts his gaze. He pales even further.</p><p>He does not care for my cries of agony as he gathers me into his arms—one hand pressing against my wounded side—his wings folding around me as that white light engulfs the world.</p><p>“I love you…” He breathes, so softly I hardly hear it past the roars echoing across the battlefield. “<em> I love you </em>” Words spoken in a desperate confession as that burning light approaches, so much like the Cauldrons, but different.</p><p>“I…” I breathe, the sound no more than a quivering breath. “I love you…” And just as those words slip past my lips, the source of the light passes over us, leaving a trail of ashes in it’s wake.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0058"><h2>58. Losses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For a time, we just sit there, our brows linked as the ashes left by that being fall upon us, coating us in gray soot. Azriel’s hand and a rough patching of cobalt power remains pressed against my side, keeping the bleeding at a minimum, but my wings remain mangled behind me, the pain pulsing through me in rhythm with my heart.</p><p>Through all my years of torture, I have never felt this level of pain, have not had my wings snapped and torn and destroyed.</p><p>I envy the naïve female I’d been before, who had not know this agony. I envy her, yet don’t. Because that female will not be as strong as the one who walks off of this battle field.</p><p>Who <em> survives </em> this agony.</p><p>Because cradled in the arms of my mate, I’ll survive it. Comforted by his embrace, I will persevere. Fueled by his love, I will carry on living.</p><p>Breathing a long sigh—one that reminds me of relief, or disbelief—his wings unfurl from around me, his grip of me tightening, then he shakily rises to his feet. My whimpers and cries are unhinged as he lifts me, but once the pain grows bearable again, I look out across the charred field, dusted in ash in the wake of that light. A burning, lovely light that’s settled in my blood like a comfortable warmth of familiarity.</p><p>Hybern is gone. Not a sign of his vast army remains. Only ashes and dust. But our own—what remains of it—its out there, mourning and grieving their losses, but celebrating our victory.</p><p>We’ve won.</p><p>We’re alive.</p><p>I keep my head leaned against his chest as he starts walking, ashes swishing in the wake of his stride, blowing on the sea-scented breeze as we move to somewhere—towards anywhere but this wasteland.</p><p>I’m not quite present, my mind hazy and thickened by pain as I watch the world pass us by. The only thing really registering is the steady thump of his heart, beating just beneath my ear.</p><p>Alive. We’re both alive.</p><p>By some miracle, Fate did not decide to claim us today, and while I’m worse for wear, Azriel seems okay. Bloody, littered with scrapes and cuts, but okay. He’s okay.</p><p>We’re okay.</p><p>Screaming tears its way across the battlefield, raw and unhinged and wild and destroyed, coming from that distant hill I partly make out in the distance. Azriel picks up his pace, and I’m not sure how we get there, but we do, as does Mor and Cassian, the latter worse off than myself yet somehow still standing.</p><p>Azriel patches him up with his cobalt wraps until the blue power coats all three of us, Mor’s own injuries handled on her own.</p><p>Rhys however, and Feyre…</p><p>Azriel holds me tighter as we watch her, try to reach her, but she just shakes his lifeless body, desperately trying to wake him.</p><p>But he won’t wake up.</p><p>I have seen death enough to know what it’s slumber looks like, even as dazed as this.</p><p>It does not make that fact easier to stomach. Not at all.</p><p>The sight before me could have very well been me and Azriel. Feyre could have been me crying over Azriel’s dead body, and…</p><p>I can’t think about it, I can’t look at it, so I close my eyes and bury my face in Azriel’s chest, trying my best to block out the sound as well, but there’s no escaping that.</p><p>I hear her order them to bring him back, hear her <em>demand</em> they do it as they once brought her back, and only once I hear Tarquin agree do I dare to glimpse it, to see it be done as each High Lord one by one give that seed of power to Rhysand’s lifeless body. Even Beron, after a not so subtle threat on Mor’s part. Then Feyre, after Thesan explains how it’s done, leaving only…</p><p>The High Lord of Spring.</p><p>She begs him, begs him and everything at all once, begs the world to undo this terrible thing, and it hears her.</p><p>I do not hear the High Lord’s words, but I see him drop that kernel of life onto Rhysand, and I watch as his body glows, watch it glow and… be reborn, his soul returned.</p><p>I’ve seen it before—with Miryam—but it wasn’t like this, it didn’t <em> feel </em> like this to watch her take that first breath again, not as watching Rhys’ chest lift does.</p><p>And his words, like nothing ever even happened. Everyone else just… conversing. Then Rhys says something about Amren, and Mor and Varian are fishing through the Cauldron, hauling her out of the black waters, but…</p><p>Why was she in there, she…</p><p>The light. Of course it was her. Unbound and free and glorious.</p><p>She saved us all and gave up everything to do it.</p><p>Because as her eyes open, there is no swirling otherness in her silver eyes. Just solid color.</p><p>High Fae and nothing more.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There you go, I planned to space them out but I couldn't help myself. There are three chapters left before the acowar storyline ends, but I'll post them tomorrow.</p><p>This entire battle was 'really' difficult to write, but I'm happy with how it turned out.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0059"><h2>59. Mended</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’m not quite conscious for most of what happens next. I know Azriel brings me to </span>
  <span>some</span>
  <span> healer</span>
  <span>s</span>
  <span>, but what they do to me… I only remember agony, and pain, and muffled screaming as they reset my bones, </span>
  <span>fastened my broken limbs to splints and bandaged my injuries.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Azriel is there the entire time, allowing me to clutch his hand with a crushing grip throughout the entire process, his shadows skittering across my body with aims to soothe as best he can. </span>
  <span>Even as the healers tend to his overworked wings—bandaging and fasting them to splints of his own—he does not let go of me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now—after a blurry span of time—he’s </span>
  <span>holding my hand as I rim the edge of consciousness, slowly emerging from the murky fog of pain. </span>
  <span>A</span>
  <span> pain no amount of their painkilling potions could fully quell. His other hand combs through my hair, carefully working through the tangles, every brush of his hand soothing and comforting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> I’d be purring as he did days prior, but my throat’s </span>
  <span>so raw I can’t manage the sound, so raw my every breath’s a rough rasp.</span>
</p>
<p>I hear the sound of cloth shifting, and feel Azriel’s hand still it’s motion.</p>
<p>“How is she?” A soft question, familiar in phrasing and originating from the same female as days ago.</p>
<p>“Alive” Azriel answers, his throat hoarse from disuse and yelling orders on the battlefield.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Good… </span>
  <span>And you?” I think she’s steeping closer, swear I hear the sound of her feet moving against the trampled earth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Fine” His hand resumes its combing, whatever surprise Morrigan’s arrival instilled </span>
  <span>faded</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “There…</span>
  <span> There’s something I need to talk to you about” </span>
  <span>Her</span>
  <span> voice wavers. “About us” Those words are hardly a whisper.</span>
</p>
<p>“There is no us” Azriel states, no warmth to his voice, not a sliver. “You’ve made that very clear”</p>
<p>
  <span> “I—I know, but you… You deserve to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
  <span>Azriel says nothing, simply keeps combing through my hair, working on a particularly persistent tangle. “I should have told you centuries ago, but I—I was scared, Az, </span>
  <span>for so many reasons</span>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>“I don’t need to know” Is Azriel’s only response.</p>
<p>
  <span> “But you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You… I can’t keep lying to you” She takes another step closer, and a low growl rumbles out of Azriel. Mor takes a couple steps back. “</span>
  <span>If you… If you’d rather I do this later, I could—”</span>
</p>
<p>“Just say what you came here to say” Azriel’s tone isn’t hostile, but tense, strained. Mor’s unease radiates off of her in waves, in answer to Azriel’s behavior or something else, I don’t know.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>I—I prefer females, Az” Azriel says nothing. “I always have, but I—no one could know, not even you. If Keir were to know, he’d…” She trails off. “I’m sorry, Az. </span>
  <span>I love you like a brother.</span>
  <span> I’m sorry I didn’t express that sooner” I hear Mor </span>
  <span>nervously shift</span>
  <span> on her feet as Azriel’s silence lingers, stretches far and wide. The only proof he’s still here is the steady thump of his heart and his insistent combing—still working </span>
  <span>on</span>
  <span> that pesky tangle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “You should have told me” He eventually states, his tone as even and unbothered as </span>
  <span>always, if a little tense</span>
  <span> “I would have understood”</span>
</p>
<p>“I know, I—I’m sorry—”</p>
<p>
  <span> “It doesn’t matter now” </span>
  <span>He cuts Mor off </span>
  <span>before she can rant</span>
  <span>, which surprises me a little in my hazy state of consciousness—awake enough to hear and see and feel, but not move a limb. I feel too heavy to try, at least. “</span>
  <span>It hasn’t for a while”</span>
</p>
<p>“What… What do you mean?”</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>I love you, Mor, but not as I once did” His hand does a long stroke through my hair. “Don’t worry about my heart. </span>
  <span>T</span>
  <span>ake care of your own instead”</span>
</p>
<p>“But we—are we okay?”</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>We’re okay. I suspected this” Mor seems to hum.</span>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>How’s Cassian?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Alive, mangled, b</span>
  <span>ut h</span>
  <span>e’ll be fine” Azriel doesn’t say anything, so I assume he nods. “She… She’s the reason, isn’t she…” His silence once again indicates that he nods. “I suppose I suspected that too, but… I was worried I was holding you back”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “You were, </span>
  <span>in a way</span>
  <span>” His thumb does a clear sweep along the back of my hand. “But I’ve mostly been an idiot” She laughs, though it’s more like a sharp exhale.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>I assume you being here means you’ve gotten your shit together” </span>
</p>
<p>“I don’t know if that’s possible” Another airy laugh from Mor, and a soft chuckle from Azriel. “But yes, I think I have. Enough so, at least”</p>
<p>“Good, I’m glad” A couple heartbeats of silence pass. “I should go check on the others. I’ll warn them not to disturb”</p>
<p>
  <span> “They’ll come running if you do that” Azriel states as Mor’s footsteps seem to move towards the exit. </span>
  <span>She laughs.</span>
</p>
<p>“Probably. I’ll tell them you’re both fine if they ask, then”</p>
<p>“Take care, Mor” Azriel says as the sound of cloth being shifted reaches my ears.</p>
<p>
  <span> “You too. Both of you” </span>
  <span>Then she’s gone, her footsteps fading away one step at a time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence returns to it’s peaceful calm, Azriel focusing on his work to untangle my hair while I remain on this ridge between awake and not. I’m not drifting though, which is a surprise. Because there’s light in this tent, and my mind is primed for drifting in the state it’s in, but I feel no inclination to do so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it’s him—his presence—keeping me grounded. Giving me a reason to stay. Because my mind is honed in on his every move, listening to his every breath and every thump of his heart. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Well, I’d gladly subtract the pain out of the equation, but even </span>
  <em>
    <span>with</span>
  </em>
  <span> my slowly healing wounds, to be in his care is more than I could ask for; is worth more to me than any trove of gold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With my neck growing tense in this position—as I’m laid on my stomach—I attempt to move it ever so slightly, sighing in complaint because gosh does it hurt to move.</span>
</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t move” Azriel murmurs softly, and I fully intend to heed his words. “Anything I can do for you?”</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My neck hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I write out, hopefully somewhere he can see it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> His hand slips down from my hair and gently </span>
  <span>begins</span>
  <span> knead</span>
  <span>ing</span>
  <span> the sore muscles and tendons </span>
  <span>along my neck. Again, I’d be purring if my throat wasn’t so raw, but my sighs of content hopefully work as sufficient sign of approval.</span>
</p>
<p>“Anything else?”</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Water</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There’s a faint flash of blue, then Azriel’s hand leaves my neck and grabs something, guides it to my lips. A waterskin. I slowly let myself indulge on the cool liquid, let it soothe my raw throat and get rid of the drought. </span>
  <span>He doesn’t let me have too much though, in case my stomach betrays me, and once the waterskin leaves my lips, his hand soon resumes it’s kneading down the length of my neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> This time I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> purr, but it’s a rough, raspy </span>
  <span>noise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>How do you feel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <em>
    <span> But not as much.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Partially thanks to his phenomenal massage.</span>
</p>
<p>“You gave me quite the scare” He mumbles.</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry. I made a stupid mistake.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I should have seen the blade, should have been careful about where I reappeared. But the pain disoriented me. It isn’t an excuse though.</span>
</p>
<p>“You’re alive” He concludes with a sigh, and in the end, that’s what counts.</p>
<p>We’re alive.</p>
<p><span> Azriel’s hand moves, brushing a path down the side of my face with the back of his fingers. The act reminds me of the slashes down my face, </span><span>healed up fairly well as far as I can tell, but bound to scar to some extent, definitely. </span>I’m not usually too self conscious about my scars—say the burns stretching along my left shoulder—but the thought of my face being marred so clearly… I pray it’ll remain as unnoticeable as most of my scars.</p>
<p>Shifting my head a little more, I open my eyes to take a look at him in the dim light, finding him sat on a stool just on my left, slightly before this cot I’ve been laid in as to not disturb my stilted wings.</p>
<p>
  <span> I glimpse his face, find the exhaustion hiding in his dim eyes, but he smiles just a fraction as I peer up at him, my eyelids heavy, </span>
  <span>my body ready to fade into slumber again. B</span>
  <span>ut the sight of him </span>
  <span>is </span>
  <span>too lovely to resist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I see why you prefer the floor</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I write out between us, and Azriel arches a brow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There’s no room for a gorgeous Illyrian male at my side.</span>
  </em>
  <span> His faint smile broadens into a smirk, his cheeks darkening just a shade.</span>
</p>
<p>“You could always lay on me” He muses, birthing a smile onto my lips as well, my cheeks flushing a shade deeper. “But my back’s pretty fucked too” My eyes drift to his wings, as splinted as my own.</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I suppose this is fine.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Azriel’s smile softens.</span>
</p>
<p>A moment later, he’s slipping down to his knees beside me, sitting down on them at my side to level his head closer with my own, his hand resuming it’s combing as his eyes gaze deeply into my own.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Is this better?” He asks, voice a hushed, dark mumble. I nod faintly, unable to manage much more. “</span>
  <span>Good” His head bends down to mine, resting his brow against my own. “I’ll stay right here, then” He continues, his voice as low and mumbled as before. “I’ll never leave you again” And that’s guilt lacing his words. A heavy guilt whose origin I can assume.</span>
</p>
<p>I can’t bring myself to speak, to tell him it’s okay, that he’s been forgiven, but I can show him. Jaggedly, I reach my free hand up to his cheek, cupping it as I tilt my head back, bringing his lips down to my own.</p>
<p>He doesn’t resist it, but he doesn’t return it at first either, his surprise rendering him stunned. Then, as I softly move mine against his, his body seems to catch up with him, and his grip of my hair tightens as he moves in rhythm with me, his soft lips molding against mine like they were made for the act.</p>
<p>His taste reminds me of a sweet I could never tire of; could devour for eternity and never grow bored of. And it can't be found anywhere else in the world, only here with him, with his lips dancing against my own.</p>
<p>It remains a soft joining from start to finish, tender and loving, so different from any lover I’ve ever taken. Because this isn’t just any male. Azriel’s never been just any male. He’s always been more than that, even before the bond showed itself. I mourn the loss of him the moment we part, but allow us both the time to breathe, my breath coming in short panting rasps while Azriel’s are slow and controlled.</p>
<p>“I could do that forever” He admits with a sigh. “Goodbye productivity” I smile, bright and true, a pained string of laughter slipping past my lips.</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of writing or speaking, I pull him in for another, a low, content hum slipping out of him as we dance this lovers dance. His tongue slips out, grazing my lower lip in silent request. I open, meet his tongue with my own, but even then the kiss remains slow and gentle. Exploratory. Our tongues simply playing, getting acquainted with one another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> The position isn’t favorable for me, strains heavily on my neck, and I’m begrudgingly forced to part form him, my head shifting to relieve the strain with a sigh both content and annoyed. </span>
  <span>His hand finds my neck almost immediately, his fingers kneading wonderful circles into the hurt.</span>
</p>
<p>His head settles on the bit of free space on the pillow before me with a content sigh, and while his heart beats faster than normal, it’s no faster than my own, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this content before. Complete.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>I’ve heard whispers of a meeting tomorrow” Azriel eventually states, having laid with me in content silence for a while. “Between everyone involved in the war” Which would mean Drakon and Miryam as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to go</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I write in a way I hope he can see. His jaw tenses.</span>
</p>
<p>“You’re hurt. You’ll still be tomorrow”</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Either you bring me or I go myself.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He sighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Alright, fine. But try to get some sleep for now” I close my eyes in answer, settling more comfortably atop the pillow. “I’ll be here when you wake up” I smile, can't help but give the bond a loving caress, and I feel him mirror the action moments later, the</span>
  <span> mental touch</span>
  <span> making me feel all warm and lovely and good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes falling asleep a lovely thing rather than a thing of nightmares and death as recent events should demand, makes it a calm inviting embrace.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0060"><h2>60. Fragile Peace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I wouldn’t say Azriel’s happy to have me here—not at all—but after a night and a day worth of rest, I can stand without my knees buckling, my wings not running the risk of falling apart again. But that’s partly due to Azriel’s added supports of cobalt patchwork, I'll admit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Rhys and Feyre seemed surprised to find me up and about when Azriel brought me to them to have us winnowed to </span>
  <span>this ruined estate, but that surprise faded quickly once we got here and the other attendees began to arrive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they pass us by, </span>
  <span>Azriel does not loosen his grip around my waist for a heartbeat. And I prefer it that way.</span>
</p>
<p><span>My breath catches in my throat as Drakon and Miryam’s host enters the ruined hall, a few faces in their entourage that I recognize. One no other than Nephelle herself. </span>She smiles at Feyre for a moment, but then her dark eyes shift over to me, and that smile shifts into clear surprise. She nudges her wife who looks to me as well, and I resist the urge to illusion myself away as most of the Seraphim host shifts their gaze to me. Including Miryam and Drakon.</p>
<p>
  <span> I keep my chin held high as I settle my eyes on my former keeper, </span>
  <span>momentarily surprised to find him smiling as he realizes who he’s looking at, but his trek deeper into the hall rips the sight of it away along with the rest of his host. I decide that I’ll find them once this meeting is over, sometime before they head back to Cretea.</span>
</p>
<p>I could have waited a day to catch them in the camp, I know that, but I wanted to see them here first, where the crowd would shield me from an outright confrontation or conversation, where the coming meeting would sway their attention elsewhere.</p>
<p>I wanted to see them here just to see if… If I even want to speak with them at all.</p>
<p>
  <span> But I do. I want to know why he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> sent me to Hybern, why he wasn’t on Cretea when I looked and why things just aren’t making sense in my head.</span>
</p>
<p>Drakon better have answers.</p>
<p>
  <span>But until </span>
  <span>the moment arises</span>
  <span>, I listen to the stories, seated beside Azriel at this vast table, filled with Fae and humans from all reaches of the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> I listen to Feyre, to Drakon and Miryam, to all the tales of good and hurt and something in between. I listen to their discussions about a new wall, about the threat of other Fae territories who found Hybern’s promises appealing and seductive. Word by word, I hear the fragile alliance between us all waver, but no one leaves. Everyone stays until the early light of dawn reaches just over the horizon, and once everyone begins to say their goodbyes—parting with promises of keeping in touch that vary in sincerity—I decide it’s time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Because Miryam and Drakon aim to leave early, and </span>
  <span>it makes for a great opportunity to catch them in a hurry to be somewhere else, hopefully shortening the conversation by nature.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, </span>
  <span>I wordlessly move after them, Azriel sticking to my side as surely as my shadow trails me, and by the time we reach the </span>
  <span>host of Seraphim and half-Fae, we’ve stepped into the dim light of dawn.</span>
</p>
<p>Hearing our steps on the gravel, they turn to look at us, and that same surprise is still clear in some of their eyes. Drakon only smiles, much like when he passed us hours ago now.</p>
<p>“It’s good to see you again, Estelle” He states, taking a step our way. I gulp, search for the words to say.</p>
<p>“Why did you do it?” I ask, my voice still hoarse, but improving. “Why did you send me to Hybern?” Drakon’s smile softens.</p>
<p>“Because I couldn’t watch you fade for a moment longer” His soft words surprise me into silence. “Miryam and I agreed that you needed to go. Needed to find your own way in this word… So I sent you away so you could disappear”</p>
<p>“You could have picked somewhere safer than Hybern” I mutter. “I got caught, you see” Drakon’s tan pales. “I got out just a few months ago” Miryam looks devastated.</p>
<p>“Would you have deemed any other kind of expedition worth risking Cretea’s safety for?” I debate his question in silence for a time.</p>
<p>“No” I admit. “No I wouldn’t have”</p>
<p>“There you go”</p>
<p>“But where were you? I looked for you when my memory returned. I couldn’t find you anywhere” Drakon looks to Azriel then, assesses him from head to toe. Azriel doesn’t so much as bristle beneath the prince's gaze.</p>
<p>
  <span> “There was a part of the bargain designed to keep one memory hidden no matter what” Drakon begins, looking back at me. “A section ensuring that you would not remember the </span>
  <span>full extent of the</span>
  <span> wards we put in place around the island, </span>
  <span>the part </span>
  <span>making it seem in ruins, in case you were to fall into enemy hands” My eyes widen. “We were there all this time. The wards worked a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> well, you see” </span>
  <span>I lack words to express what I’m feeling right now. Miryam steps forward then, steps up beside her mate.</span>
</p>
<p>“I’m sorry we didn’t see it sooner, did not question where your spirit went once we settled on Cretea. Our own relief and happiness made us blind. But you are free now, Estelle, you are free to be whoever you wish with whomever you please” The faintest smile tugs onto my lips.</p>
<p>“I… Thank you… I’m still pissed at you for a <em>lot</em> of things” I point at Drakon, and he looks down in what appears to be shame. “But thank you” I sigh, letting my arm fall back to my side. “For letting me find my way home” I look up at Azriel, catching the small smile slipping onto his lips. I can’t help but smile in answer</p>
<p>“I hope you visit sometime” Drakon states, snatching back my attention. “Maybe as Rhys’ emissary between our lands” I consider the thought.</p>
<p>
  <span> “I don’t know… We’ll see where life takes me” They nod curtly, all of them, </span>
  <span>then Drakon gathers Miryam in his arms, aiming to fly her away, back to their camp.</span>
</p>
<p>“I hope it takes you someplace lovely” And with those parting words, they shoot into the sky, nothing but a mass of white and gold on the deep blue sky above, a moving cloud amongst many others.</p>
<p>Azriel and I watch them go in silence, until their shapes are nothing more than specs on the distant horizon. But once other attendees begin to leave the manor, Azriel brings us back inside to a shaded corner of the ruined meeting hall, not resisting for a second as I lean in against his chest, his arms comfortably coiling around my waist, and mine around his.</p>
<p>“You look nothing like them” He states calmly, his voice almost gobbled up by the hum of all the talking people in this hall.</p>
<p>But he’s right. I don’t have that dark hair or rich golden tan, and while my eyes are similar to most Seraphims’, they’re not quite like theirs.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>I was told that on the day of my birth I absorbed all the light in the world within a radius large enough to leave my village in complete darkness” I begin softly. “When I stopped I… The light had soaked into my body and turned me into this” Into this pale version of my brethren, always different and out of place. “My eyes are said to be </span>
  <span>the </span>
  <span>remnants of the void I created that day” His hand reaches up to my cheek, tilts my head up to look at him.</span>
</p>
<p>“Your eyes are the most beautiful voids I’ve ever seen” I snort.</p>
<p>“And you said you didn’t need to resort to poetry” He grins.</p>
<p>“I don’t, but I still know my way with words” I smile, but it soon falters, fades into caution.</p>
<p>“We’ll need to use them soon, you know… We need to talk” He nods, his grin fading.</p>
<p>“I know… Once we’re back in Velaris, we’ll use our words” I nod, agreeing to the terms, but for now I decide to be content as we are.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just one chapter left of this, it feels surreal.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0061"><h2>61. Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It takes a couple days to sort everything out, to heal our wounded enough to make it back home and dismantle the war-camp we live in during our stay. But soon enough—yet not soon enough—we’re all back in the town house, winnowed in </span>
  <span>together</span>
  <span> all at once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Never has a return felt quite like this, like returning home. Perhaps not this house specifically, but this place, this city</span>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>It will be my home, no matter what happens next. And with Azriel’s hand firmly in mine, I think whatever's to come will be lovely.</p>
<p>Amren is the first to speak.</p>
<p>“I suppose I shall have to eat real food now” I refrain from laughing, lock my jaw shut tight as a smile threatens to slip.</p>
<p>
  <span> “A monumental sacrifice” Cassian quips, e</span>
  <span>a</span>
  <span>rning himself a vulgar gesture from the once-other-now-High Fae. But her eyes narrow as she looks at his heavily bandaged wings—my own still similarly bound, the bandages just more blended together with the white of my wings—then her eyes shift to where Nesta is </span>
  <span>stood by the stairs, as if ready to retreat to her room</span>
</p>
<p>She’s been very quiet lately.</p>
<p>“I’m surprised you didn’t take the king’s head back to have stuffed and hung on your wall” Because it had been Nesta who twisted the knife struck through the King’s throat. Nesta who beheaded the male. And Elain who used Truth-Teller to initiate it.</p>
<p>She returned they knife a couple days ago, and the blade is now safely strapped to Azriel’s belt again.</p>
<p>Nesta’s eyes shoot to Amren, but Mor clicks her tongue and speaks before Nesta has a chance.</p>
<p>“Some would consider that joke to be in bad taste, Amren”</p>
<p>“I save your asses. I’m entitled to say what I want” Considering what she gave up to save us, I’m inclined to agree with her. I don’t have time to express that before Amren strides out the door and into the city.</p>
<p>“The new Amren is even crankier than the old one” Elain says softly.</p>
<p>Feyre’s the first to burst out laughing, and we all soon join her, the sound a bright and lovely thing with us all together like this.</p>
<p>Alive.</p>
<p>All of us.</p>
<p>But Nesta does not laugh, I notice, the sight faltering my own laughter. She only stares into space. And I realize that perhaps all of us didn’t make it off of that battlefield, not as well off as we believe.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>Come on” Mor says, sliding a careful arm over Cassian’s shoulder and her other </span>
  <span>arm</span>
  <span> over Azriel’s, guiding all four of us towards the sitting area as my grip on Azriel’s hand guides me along. “We need a drink” Mor’s hands on my mate could instill jealousy, but I know there’s nothing like that in the touch, know Mor is no threat like that, so I happily let her be close to her friend, not a hint of the storm left in me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m glad it’s gone.</span>
</p>
<p>“We’re opening the fancy bottles” Cassian calls to Rhys over his shoulder, the commander still limping, but doing fine.</p>
<p>All that remains of my injuries is a soreness in my left side and an ache in my wings, the bones not quite healed but coming along. Overall I’m alright.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Save a bit for me, at least” Rhys says, sketching a subservient bow. </span>
  <span>Then he soon excuses himself and heads into the kitchen. By then, alcohol has already found its way onto the low able in the sitting room, a glass of amber liquor in Cassian’s hand, Mor snatching more fine-cut crystal glasses off of a shelf, and Azriel trying to rub a headache away beside me, his arm comfortably wrapped around my middle.</span>
</p>
<p>Once Feyre and Elain join us in the sitting place, a crystal glass of amber liquor soon finds its way into my hand, a twin in Azriel’s as well, and seated in the utter chaos of our family, we silently clink our glasses together and drink.</p>
<p>And then we laugh with them, live with them, and enjoy the fact that we’re here with them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~</span>
  <span>O~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Azriel flies me up to the House later that night, taking a wide swoop over the city before we land on our usual balcony, lingering for a moment to look out across the darkened City of Starlight, glittering like a night sky bellow us. Then he guides me through the halls, not to my room I quickly realize, but his.</p>
<p>
  <span> He brings me inside, and I spend a moment to just observe the dim space, lit up by the moonlight filtering through sheer </span>
  <span>silver curtains. The most notable piece of furniture is the grand bed, large enough to fit at least two sets of Illyrian wings, but beyond that the space feels lived in, with a neatly organized desk, drawers, a wardrobe, and so many bookshelves he practically has his own library in here. There’s a door I assume leads to a restroom, but it’s currently closed off.</span>
</p>
<p>From the scale of this room, I assume the bathroom is rather extravagant as well. It should be grander than my own room, at least. I don’t mind that fact at all. The simplicity of my room was something I enjoyed, but this is nice too.</p>
<p>
  <span>Azriel guides me to that grand bed, sits us both down at the edge of it, and for a time, we linger in the silence. I can tell Azriel’s searching for words as much as I am though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>So” He begins. “We talk” I nod, gulping down my nerves, forcing them deep within myself. “Where do we start?”</span>
</p>
<p>“I don’t know” I sigh, reaching a hand up to my brow. “There’s… A lot” His hand squeezes mine where they still remain intertwined between us both.</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t have left you there. I can start with that” I lift my gaze to him, to his bleak, guilt-struck eyes.</p>
<p>“You don’t need to apologize for that, Azriel, I… I understand why you did. It took me a while, but I understand” He reaches out for my other hand as well.</p>
<p>“I never thought I’d find my mate” My heart stops in my chest. “I though that if it wasn’t Mor, it wouldn’t be anyone. I thought I’d be alone for eternity. I’d come to terms with that fact” He gulps. “You turned my world upside-down in a night”</p>
<p>
  <span> “I never thought I’d find you either, I thought I’d remain alone and unloved for </span>
  <span>infinity</span>
  <span>, and… I don’t know if I know how to love you right, but I’ll try” I take a deep, quivering breath. “I’ll try to do it right for the rest of my life, I promise you that” </span>
  <span>He smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>“You’ve been doing it right so far, I don’t doubt you’ll continue to do so” I smile too. But it fades as I brace to continue this talk, to have this much needed conversation.</p>
<p>“I don’t think I’m ready, to… mate” My cheeks prickle with a blush, and I watch his own darken a few shades, his heartbeat spiking.</p>
<p>“I don’t think either of us are” He admits with a sigh. “But we don’t have to be, not for a while”</p>
<p>“You’re not… It doesn’t agitate you? The bond” He lets go of one of my hands to brush it through his flight-tussled hair.</p>
<p>“I feel it, but I can deal with it” There’s a glimmer of mischief in his eyes as he looks to me again. “I’ve managed pretty well so far, haven’t I?” I grin.</p>
<p>
  <span> “You’re very resistant to my taunts, mister </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shadowsinger</span>
  </em>
  <span>” A low content rumble escapes him.</span>
</p>
<p>“I like how you say that” I grin a little wider.</p>
<p>“I’ll keep that in mind”</p>
<p>
  <span> “I’m sure you will, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lightseer</span>
  </em>
  <span>” A shiver rushes down my spine, </span>
  <span>and I suck in a deep, steadying breath.</span>
</p>
<p>“From now on I… I want to be with you, help you with work, help make sure this peace lasts” He nods.</p>
<p>“You have a formal place at my side as a Lightseer, the Court’s Spymistress, if you’d like” I nod.</p>
<p>“That sounds lovely” I laugh softly. “The spies will hate us both” Azriel joins me, his laugh a low rumble I’ll never tire of.</p>
<p>“I think they already do”</p>
<p>“Probably” For a time, I’d wager our laughter’s the only sound in all of the House. “Good thing I’ll still love you, even if they don’t” I mumble once it fades out, honing Azriel’s attention onto me in an instant, his eyes bright and beautiful.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>I never thought anyone would ever return those words to me” Something cracks in me, letting out a river of grief for him. He reaches up to cup my cheek, shortening the distance between us by a couple fractions. “Hearing you </span>
  <span>say them</span>
  <span> makes the wait worth every second” </span>
  <span>A somber smile slips onto my lips.</span>
</p>
<p>“I’ve never said it before. To anyone” His eyes widen. “It’s not a string of words I use willy-nilly, be sure of that”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, I value them greatly” His brow leans down to my own. “And I love you too. I have since the night we first flew together, I think. I was still blind then though, to the true extent of it” I close my eyes, remembering that lovely night.</p>
<p>“I think I fell in love with you then too, but every moment with you contributed, and every coming moment will only strengthen it”</p>
<p>“Now look who’s being poetic” I laugh.</p>
<p>“Shut up and accept my love” He laughs too, then lays back atop the bed and gently tugs for me to lay down with him, his brows raising in subtle question, and I nod in confirmation as I slip down and lay my head to rest atop his chest, above his heart.</p>
<p>His hand quickly finds it’s way into my hair, combing through it softly.</p>
<p>“Can you hear my heart?” I ask curiously after a while.</p>
<p>“If I try hard enough, yes” I’m not sure whether I’m disappointed or relieved.</p>
<p>“I always hear yours” I mumble. “Even before I knew you, I heard it in my dreams” Azriel says nothing. “I think your shadows relayed it, continue to constantly relay it” He breathes what sounds like a laugh of disbelief.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>When I was trapped in the dark, I would dream about places I’d never seen, see glimpses of a bright, lovely world beyond my dark hell” I </span>
  <span>stifle</span>
  <span> all thought as I listen. “It gave me hope, reminded me there was something beyond the darkness. It helped me stay sane” His chest lifts as he takes a deep breath. “I think I was seeing glimpses of you, of the things you were seeing”</span>
</p>
<p>“I think you’re probably right” I mumble, letting a finger of mine trail idle lines along his clothed chest. “If I look down the bond, I can see things through your eyes” I state, and Azriel’s head shifts to look down at me, and I shift mine to look up.</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“Yes” I confirm. “I saw you strangle… Eris? Was that his name?” Azriel looks torn what to think about this.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry you had to see that, that you… I should have leashed myself better. And yes his name is Eris” He adds the last part with a clear tone of disdain.</p>
<p>“It’s alright, I was fine… besides, you were such a sweetheart after” He plants a kiss to my scarred brow just like he had that morning.</p>
<p>“I’ll try not to send as much of it down in the future, for your sake” I hum because there’s no point arguing about that. As long as I can still feel him—make sure he’s okay—I’m content.</p>
<p>
  <span> “Have I ever sent you anything?” I ask cautiously, my mind drifting to </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “A few times” </span>
  <span>He states, his tone almost reminiscing. “Once in Adriata, when you pulled out the arrow, I think. I almost dropped my own sword” A possibility. And a frightening thought. “Once the day after. It was like a… a wave of despair” I snuggle deeper into his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>“I was a little… unstable upon my return, but it was fine” His hum doesn’t sound very convinced.</p>
<p>“Then there was… one night” My heart seems to stop. “It was vague, I’d just woken up from this… Dream, and I couldn’t quite tell if it was you or me I was feeling”</p>
<p>“Was it a couple days after Adriata?” He hums. “I had a dream too…”</p>
<p>“I wonder if your power made us share it through the bond”</p>
<p>“A possibility” I admit. “Your shadows… Came to me that night”</p>
<p>“I know, they acted on what I was trying to leash, I didn’t know what they were doing until you sent them away” He sounds embarrassed, very much so. “I’m sorry, I know it can be… they can be off-putting”</p>
<p>“I like them” I state, lifting my head up to look at him again. His eyes are wide as he looks down at me. “I did then and I do now, they feel nice” My cheeks are growing ever the more red. “I just… I wasn’t ready for what they had in store for me that night, it didn’t feel right” He nods slowly.</p>
<p>As if aware we’re speaking about them, they begin to slither over me, cool and gentle in their path along my body, whispering sweet nothings I don’t understand, but wish I did.</p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <span>They like you too. Love you, even” I smile. “They </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> intend to give you a good time that night, but I’m glad they didn’t” I raise a brow, noting the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>“How so?”</p>
<p>“I’d rather do it myself” My cheeks flush, but I laugh despite it.</p>
<p>“I’d rather you do it yourself too, but I wouldn’t be opposed to letting them join the fun at some point” Azriel’s eyes gleam with a flame of desire and awe.</p>
<p>“Another time” He seems to tell both himself and me. “For now… We should have a good night's sleep for once” I agree with all my heart.</p>
<p>“Do I lay on you tonight?” I ask, keeping some of my flirtatious playfulness in my tone. His eyes sparkle with delight.</p>
<p>“If you’d like. I suggest you stay somewhat dressed in that case” I raise a brow. “Who knows what my filthy hands might do to you undressed” I laugh, push myself back up and rise from the bed.</p>
<p>“May I snatch a pair of sweatpants and a shirt?” I ask, striding for where his drawers and dresser stands. I hear the bed creak as he sits up as well.</p>
<p>“Middle and bottom drawer” Is all he says, and after a bit of searching, I find what I need.</p>
<p>
  <span> Turning back to look at him, I find his shirt tugged off and discarded on the floor by the bed, leaving all of his glorious upper self on clear display. He smirks faintly as he catches my appreciative </span>
  <span>glance.</span>
</p>
<p>I shake my head and move for the fresher.</p>
<p>“I’ll be out soon” And so I slip inside, indeed met with a grand bathroom, featured with a tub large enough for three people and with space enough to walk about mostly unbothered. To accommodate wings, I assume.</p>
<p>I change out of my plain clothes and slip into Azriel’s much too large and baggy dark clothes, not bothering to close the buttons in the back because I’ll just be sleeping in it anyways, then I return to the bedroom and find him settled under the sheets, an arm under his head as he lays there, clear delight softening his features.</p>
<p>Happy to be home.</p>
<p>And perhaps happy about the thought of me in here with him.</p>
<p>I am too. We might have a long way to go, might not be ready, but I will enjoy every heartbeat spent in his presence for the rest of my life, fully mated or not.</p>
<p>His eyes part into slivers as I move the sheets to slip under with him, his arm reaching out in invitation, one I quickly accept, letting him tuck me in safely atop him, the sheets slipping down to my lower back as his mostly recovered wings fold over me, cocooning me in safety. I snuggle into his chest, wrap my arms beneath his neck bellow the pillows, and I could bet my life that no other place could ever feel as safe as my mate’s embrace.</p>
<p>Even if there was a safer place, I would not want it.</p>
<p>This is all I want. Now and forever.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I can't believe I've done it. Only once before in my six years of writing have I finished a story, and I did it in what? Three weeks? There's something wrong with me. But writing this has been amazing, and even though almost nothing turned out the way I initially planned, I wouldn't want to change a thing now. I might have taken slow-burn to the next level, but I feel that everything happened just the way it was meant to happen, and form here I'll keep working on their relationship, because this isn't the end. I've already begun work on acofas and as it looks now, the next part of this story will begin with small scenes spanning the time between the end of acowar and acofas, just to bridge the time gap. I think It'll be lovely, just a bunch of fluff and fun and post-war recovery. You'll just have to wait and see.</p>
<p>But enough ranting. Thank you for reading this, thank you for commenting and giving kudos and silently supporting this creation of mine. You all make my day.</p>
<p>Posting this story has been the best drunk-decision of my life, and continuing to write has been my best sober decision so far, even if my rate of writing bordered insanity for a while.</p>
<p>Stay tuned for part 2 within the coming week or so. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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